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THE BEAR’S CLAWS 
















































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“There, he’s going down; now look!” 

[Page 49] 





The Bear’s Claws 


BY 

GRACE SARTWELL MASON 

it 

AND 

JOHN NORTHERN HILLIARD 


With Illustrations by 

W. D. GOLDBECK 



CHICAGO 

A. C. McCLURG & CO. 
1913 



Copyright 

A. C. McClurg & Co. 
1913 


Published March, 1913 


Copyrighted in Great Britain 


W. F. HALL PRINTING COMPANY, CHICAGO 


©CI.A343770 


To the Other Two 
yim and Ida 
















t 































































CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I Judy i 

II The Man from Bagdad 14 

III The Great Game 33 

IV An Outpost of Civilization ... 59 

V The First Trick 81 

VI A Tramp Royal 103 

VII A Daughter of the Vikings . . . 119 

VIII Caravans of the Desert . . . . 139 

IX In the Bala-Khanah 157 

X Greek Meets Greek 172 

XI On the Road to Isfahan .... 205 
XII The Teller of Tales 236 

XIII The Lost City 255 

XIV “I Was a King in Babylon” ... 287 

XV At the Journey’s End 312 


7 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

“There, he’s going down; now 

look!” Frontispiece^ 

“You can give me back the gun in Teheran,” 

said Savidge 98^ 

“I win, M’sieu Jaggard” 184^ 

The horse fell . . . throwing the woman to 

the ground 338 

































' ■ 


































r 




* 


The Bear’s Claws 


CHAPTER I 
JUDY 

A T one end of the mezzanine balcony that 
encircles the rotunda of a New York 
hotel is an ornate bronze cage. In this 
cage they keep a stenographer — not the offi- 
cial stenographer, but a casual typist for the 
convenience of guests. Like the bronze cage, 
she is more often ornamental than of any 
apparent use in the scheme of things, for down- 
stairs are two pushing and accessible young 
women to whom most of the business letters 
accrue. But now and then a quiet-loving man 
wanders upstairs, bringing her his correspond- 
ence to type; or, more rarely, a woman slips 
in with letters to copy; and thus the wolf is 
kept from the door of the bronze cage. 

1 


2 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


It is not a lucrative position. There are in 
it neither glory nor rich returns, but many 
somnolent, idle hours ; and it was because of 
these idle hours that it exactly suited Judy 
Gray. 

For there were two of Judy Gray. One of 
her was a stenographer, rather small and pale, 
resigned to captivity in the bronze cage, with 
nimble fingers and a little flickering, imper- 
sonal smile for a customer, with tired, sea- 
green eyes, and hair that might have crowned 
her with a coronet like satiny beech leaves 
had she not been too preoccupied and too 
indifferent to care for it. 

The other one of her saw visions. 

At these times, although she sat behind her 
typewriter, staring straight down the red vel- 
vet vista of the mezzanine balcony to the clang- 
ing elevator doors, she was conscious of no 
detail of the scene. Her pale face would grow 
vivid, her gray-green eyes widen, the pupils 
distending and growing brilliant, the irises 
changing to violet with little flecks of fire in 


JUDY 


3 


them. Her hands would be clenched in her 
lap, and her breath would be held lest the 
vision fail her, the divine fire flicker out before 
she could catch and revel in its glow. In these 
moments she looked not at all like Miss Gray, 
the typist. And for the moment she was not 
Miss Gray. She was the audience, the sole 
onlooker at a tremendous drama. The theater 
was the world and the drama was Adventure. 
Her own brain supplied the stage setting, the 
book of the play, the actors, and the thunder. 
She was both audience and stage director. 

As pictures unroll from a cinematograph, 
there passed before her mind’s eye strange 
countries and sinister seas; men fighting and 
weapons gleaming; bandits and buccaneers 
and rocking skies — a curious kind of vision 
for a girl to be seeing! First they would come 
as out of a fog, higgledy-piggledy, a coral reef 
alongside a Northern fjord, a Chinese pirate 
on the heels of a British midshipman, lost 
treasure crowding spoils of war. Then, as she 
watched, order and form would come out of 


4 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


chaos, the actors trooped to their places — and 
a story would be born. 

Only her friends among the bellboys knew 
there were two of Judy Gray. They carried 
about in their pockets certain tattered tales — 
A Mystery of the Solomon Islands , and 
Wreckers ’ Reef, were their favorites — all 
signed “ J. Gray.” They were wont to smooth 
out these worn pages with a proud hand as 
they explained the mysteries of authorship. 

“She dopes ’em all out herself,” Number 
Nine would say. “Yes, sir! right off the bat! 
I ’ve seen her writin’ ’em. Sure, you can take 
this one, but you’ve gotta bring it back, see? 
For I helped to write that story, in a way — 
she told me how it was goin’ to end! ” 

Number Nine would then walk circum- 
spectly past the bronze cage, peeling a wistful 
glance at J. Gray. If she gazed with big, 
unseeing eyes straight ahead of her, he would 
go on his way softly, warning off a new boy 
that would fain have hailed her. But if she 
sat alone and obviously uninspired, nibbling 


JUDY 


5 


pensively at the end of a pencil, he would 
stop by her typewriter for some little talk of 
pearl rivers, of smugglers, and false lights, of 
adventures by sea and caravan, until the neces- 
sities of a workaday world forced him back to 
the post of duty. 

She was not a genius, working in obscurity, 
to burst presently full-fledged upon a startled 
world. She never used the phrase “my art” ; 
her thoughts never hovered enviously over the 
list of best sellers; what she produced was not 
literature, and she knew it. But it stirred even 
the blase blood of the bellboys; for deep in 
Judy Gray was a vivid sense of life, of color 
and movement, and a hunger seldom found in 
the heart of a girl for the highways of the 
world, for the free wind that blows down the 
aisles of the sea, for the far corners of heathen 
lands. She saw visions because of this hunger; 
and she wrote to feed it. 

And every day from nine to five she breathed 
the overheated air of the mezzanine balcony 
in the Great Southern Hotel; and every eve- 


6 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


ning from six to nine she shivered in the 
clammy privacy of a boarding-house bedroom ; 
and the wanderlust in her soul thrived on 
starvation. 

On an afternoon in February she sat taking 
a dictation from a fat commercial traveler. 
Today she was merely a hireling letter-writer, 
tapping away at her machine like a tame little 
woodpecker. Her heavy brown hair, twisted 
into a knot at the nape of her neck, was rough- 
ened and loose from the stress of the day; a 
lead pencil had smudged the tip of her nose; 
the steam-heated air of the balcony had taken 
the color from her cheeks. One would never 
have suspected her of the Mystery of the Solo - 
mon Islands . Gone was the fire from her eyes, 
gone the vivid expectancy of her parted lips. 
She typed four letters concerning neckties, 
addressed them deftly while the drummer 
waited, and smiled impersonally at his part- 
ing sally. Then, when he had gone, she drew 
a chair to the side of her cage, and, leaning 


JUDY 


7 


her head against its metal curlicues, she stared 
wanly down into the rotunda. 

Outside the hotel a station-bus had just 
whirred up under the porte-cochere. A stream 
of incoming guests flowed across the tiled 
floor in the direction of the room clerks. She 
eyed them with small interest. Four years of 
watching guests arrive and depart from the 
Great Southern had given Judy Gray consid- 
erable skill in card-indexing their types; but 
the experience had dulled to a degree her 
interest in men, as men — women she never 
looked at twice. Somewhere down the length 
of the mezzanine balcony a window was open, 
letting in a draft of damp, cool air. It bore 
a suggestion of melting snow, a faint, subtle 
hint of spring on the way. A woman near the 
telephone booth was wearing a bunch of vio- 
lets. Judy Gray moved impatiently in her 
chair and pressed her forehead to the cool 
bronze metal. The old spring call to be up 
and out upon the highroad stirred within her 


8 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


sharply. And across the rotunda Number 
Nine charged the revolving doors, snatched a 
traveling bag from an unseen hand, and came 
staggering back with it in triumph. 

Judy’s glance fell upon Number Nine and 
his booty. At once some of the weariness left 
her eyes; she sat up and looked hungrily at 
the object Number Nine struggled with. It 
was a large portmanteau, bearing an unmis- 
takable air of the foreign maker. It was as 
battered as an old campaigner; every inch of 
it cried the miles it had wandered — and down 
in one corner shone a big blue-and-white swas- 
tika, the magic label of an Oriental steamship 
line. 

Judy, peering at the swastika, breathed a 
little “Ah!” of envy. Then a happy look 
came into her face, for a vision was on the 
way! She half closed her eyes — the crowded 
rotunda gave way to a picture of battered 
steamers from the world’s end, unloading bales 
and bundles wrapped in all the raw colors of 
the East. She could hear the grinding of 


JUDY 


9 


winches and the creaking of cargo blocks. She 
could smell nutmeg and cinnamon, the pun- 
gent odor of matting and rattan, of jute and 
hemp, all mixed with the racy salt of the sea. 
She could see the great wharves crawling alive 
with the figures of Lascar and Malay, China- 
man and Arab, moving lithely among ingots 
of tin from Penang, bags of copal from the 
Malabar coast, gambier from Singapore, bales 
of bamboo from Burma, and coir from the 
Straits Settlements. Then, as swiftly as a swal- 
low’s shadow, the dream passed, and she found 
herself peering eagerly through the scrollwork 
of her cage at a man striding across the rotunda 
in the wake of Number Nine. 

He was tall, lank, and yet compactly knit- 
ted, with a fine, powerful stride, and strong 
shoulders that he carried with an almost im- 
perceptible list to the left. He had a face 
that was the color of coffee, lean and sun- 
bitten ; and there was an indefinably foreign 
air about his gray tweeds. Judy watched him 
as he wrote his name at the desk and stood 


IO 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


reading a telegram the clerk handed him. She 
approved of the way he smoked his cigar — 
gripped firmly in a corner of his salient, 
unsmiling mouth. Judy had had plenty of 
opportunity to study the psychology of the 
cigar, and she liked a man to smoke as he 
should stand on his feet — strong and straight. 

11 It has been a long time since he saw New 
York,” she said to herself. He was sitting now 
in one of the huge leather chairs, with one long 
leg thrown over the other, watching the scene 
before him rather somberly. He somehow 
reminded her of a man looking on at a scene 
that, familiar enough to him in the past, had 
grown strange and a little alien during a long 
absence. That he had got out of American 
ways was evident from his manner of sitting 
or standing. Among the men that lounged 
restlessly, nervously chewing their cigars or 
fidgeting with their papers, he was conspicu- 
ous because he knew how to be still. He had 
the immobility of the Oriental; but his eyes 
were not at all of the Orient. They were 


JUDY 


ii 


Yankee eyes, shrewd, deep, and a clear hazel- 
gray, with a quizzical effect in the crow’s-feet 
at their corners. They counteracted somewhat 
the hint of hardness in his face and made his 
unsmiling lips seem less grim. 

Judy, looking down at him, put her head 
one one side, with an air of critical appraisal. 
Then she gave a little satisfied, whimsical 
laugh. 

“ I ’ll bet,” she said, “ I ’ll bet he can fight.” 

She then went back to her typewriter. Her 
lips, her eyes, her cheeks, had grown vivid 
and happy. For the man with the sun-bronzed 
face and the swastika on his traveling bag had 
set her on the trail of a wonderful new story. 
All the rest of the afternoon she lived in a 
never-never land of her own imagining. Bell- 
boys passing her cage forbore to speak to her, 
for she sat in front of her typewriter, tapping 
away like a mad woodpecker, the joy of crea- 
tion in her eyes and a green lead pencil stuck 
skewer-wise in her hair. At five o’clock she 
came back to earth, hooded her machine for 


12 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


the night, and stretched her tired fingers. Then 
she put on a jacket, and a hat with a parra- 
keet’s wing stuck in it, pulled on her rubbers 
and gloves, tucked under her arm the first 
volume of Burton’s Journey to El Medinah, 
and then hesitated in the doorway of the 
bronze cage. 

After an instant she crossed over and looked 
down into the rotunda. Her eyes searched 
the busy place for a few minutes before they 
lighted on the man with the sun-bitten face 
and the foreign-looking clothes. Then she 
did something she could not have explained 
even to herself: She beckoned Number Nine 
up to the mezzanine balcony and pointed the 
man out to him. 

“ Jimmy, I want to know his name, please,” 
she said. 

Number Nine hurried away. In a minute 
he was back beside her, with the information 
that the gentleman’s name was John Savidge. 

“John Savidge? Um-m — the name will 


JUDY 


13 


do. It ’s a good, fighting kind of name. Where 
is he from, Jimmy?” 

“ Chicago.” 

Her face fell ludicrously. She turned upon 
Number Nine a face that was affronted and 
incredulous. 

“ Chicago! You must be wrong, Jimmy! 
Why, it might be Mandalay, or Cape Town, 
or Delhi — but not Chicago, never!” 

She turned away from the puzzled Jimmy 
and went sadly to the elevator, and, disillu- 
sioned, home. It took her the evening to' get 
over the shock of Chicago. For in her own 
delectable imaginings, in the new story for 
which he and his bag were responsible, John 
Savidge had figured all the afternoon as the 
Man from Bagdad. 


CHAPTER II 


THE MAN FROM BAGDAD 

D URING the next week she wrote him 
into a fine tale of mutiny and murder 
in the Yellow Sea. He figured in detail 
— he was the only man she had ever seen that 
she had no need to touch up for the purposes 
of fiction. He not only fitted the part but 
inspired it. And yet, she could not have told 
why. There was nothing of the swashbuckler 
in him; if there was anything conspicuous 
about him, it was his conspicuous quiet. And 
for all the facts she possessed concerning Mr. 
John Savidge, Chicago, he might have been 
the proprietor of a Wabash Avenue hardware 
store. 

But deep in her heart she knew better. And, 
characteristically, she had no curiosity con- 
cerning facts. For her purposes it was much 


14 


THE MAN FROM BAGDAD 


15 

safer merely to watch him from the mezzanine 
balcony. As long as she had no closer acquaint- 
ance with the lean, sunburnt traveler, he would 
remain the Man from Bagdad, full of inspir- 
ing possibilities, a perfect figure on which 
to drape the cloak of adventure. She was 
therefore rather disconcerted than otherwise 
when she looked up one afternoon to see him 
standing in the doorway of her office, with a 
sheaf of letters in his hand. 

Judy had a manner, when she chose to 
assume it, that was an effective discourage- 
ment of anything except the business in hand. 
Her eyes became cold, her face impassive, and 
the very poise of her hands over the typewriter 
keys was an invitation to be businesslike. She 
now put on this manner like a mask, while 
underneath it she hugged herself gleefully as 
she thought of the part Mr. John Savidge was 
playing with so serene unconsciousness. But 
she might have spared herself the trouble of 
assuming any manner whatsoever, for the Man 
from Bagdad was apparently no more con- 


1 6 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


scious of her personally than of the man that 
took him up in the elevator. He looked over 
her head as he dictated a letter crisply, took 
it from her hand when it was finished, and 
strode out with a preoccupied air. 

Judy went contentedly back to the tale of 
mutiny and murder in the Yellow Sea. The 
Man from Bagdad walked around the rotunda 
aimlessly for a few times, and then sat him 
down in a leather chair, with a rather grim 
and lonesome expression in his eyes. 

The next day he required her services, and 
the next. Almost every day for a week she 
wrote letters for him, some of them contain- 
ing the names of towns that reminded her of 
a page from the Arabian Nights, and tanta- 
lized her imagination with vague pictures, 
while underneath her professional mask she 
nursed a sly delight in the situation. They 
might have gone on thus — he looking over 
her head while she wove him into ever fresh 
webs of adventure — for the remainder of his 
stay at the Great Southern, had he not chanced 


THE MAN FROM BAGDAD 


17 


upon her one day in one of her great moments, 
at the very instant, in fact, when a new story 
in all its gorgeous possibilities unrolled itself 
before her delighted vision. 

It had been an afternoon of few letters, rain 
outside, and a somnolent quiet along the bal- 
cony. She sat huddled in front of her idle 
machine, both hands clasping a knee, one foot 
swinging excitedly. She was staring straight 
ahead of her with eyes that saw a yellow river, 
queer-rigged craft, a red sunrise, and in front 
of it a battle. It was the most satisfying battle 
she had been able to conjure up in many a 
day, and her blood quickened as she watched 
it. Pirates from Hongkong harbor crowded 
as thick as swarming bees about a lone trading 
sloop, swarmed and hacked with outlandish 
weapons, and pierced the air with a shrill and 
dreadful clatter. She saw the shiny, naked 
body of their leader poised on deck; saw the 
queer-rigged craft swinging in a tightening 
circle; saw the lining up of fighting men on 
the squat deck of the sloop, and the red light 


i8 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


of sunrise on steel soon to be crimson from 
another source. 

“ Are you busy, Miss Gray?” 

She turned her head with a start. John 
Savidge, standing in the doorway, caught, as 
no one else had ever done, the full look of vivid 
expectancy, the entranced, wide-eyed delight, 
in her vision that Judy Gray’s face always 
wore when a story leaped into being. For that 
one instant she was beautiful. But even as 
Savidge looked at her, the light died out of 
her face. She rubbed her eyes with a gesture 
quaintly like a child’s on being suddenly 
awakened, and he saw her turn again into a 
little pale stenographer, resigned to captivity 
in the bronze cage, still and self-possessed. She 
gave a fluttering sigh, glanced at the sheaf of 
letters in his hand, and ran two sheets of paper 
under the platen of her machine. But the 
man continued to lean against the side of the 
door, looking down at her with his quizzical 
half -smile. Absent-mindedly he thrust a 


THE MAN FROM BAGDAD 


i9 


brown hand into a vest-pocket — the gesture 
of the habitual smoker, who, in a puzzled 
moment, seeks the familiar counsel of a cigar. 

“ Queer,” he drawled in his level voice, “ I 
never noticed it before.” 

“ What?” Surprised, she looked around at 
him. 

“ That you are beautiful ! ” 

It was exactly the tone he might have used 
if he had discovered some morning a new and 
lovely aspect in a familiar landscape. He 
looked at her gravely and impersonally; but 
in his eyes there was a spark of whimsical 
humor. 

A look of immense and startled astonishment 
flashed into her face. There was a brief strug- 
gle between her professional manner and the 
side of her that was girlish and natural, and 
the girl won. The corners of her mouth quiv- 
ered into a mischievous smile. 

-“Well, you’re the very first one to discover 
it!” she said. 


20 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


Then she retreated abruptly into her pro- 
fessional shell, and clicked back the carriage 
of her typewriter severely. 

He took a cigar from his pocket and reached 
for a match with an absent-minded, leisurely 
gesture. Then he looked at her from under 
his quizzical brows, and snapped out the flame 
of the match. 

“ Smoke if you like.” Then she added, with 
a touch of scorn, “They all do.” 

“Do they?” he drawled, with a lift of one 
shoulder. “Well, I never do what they do. 
Will you take this letter, please?” 

Mechanically her fingers took down the 
words he dictated; but the living half of her 
mind flew off to thoughts of its own. The voice 
at her elbow dictated: 

“I would advise a freight quay similar to 
the one we built in Hongkong harbor. . . .” 

He paused, thinking of the next sentence. 
He did not know that Hongkong was a word 
to conjure with, that it sent the mind of the 
girl at his elbow flashing back to a tightening 


THE MAN FROM BAGDAD 


21 


circle of queer-rigged craft, a red sunrise, and 
a royal fight. He was barely conscious that 
she had turned sharply until he met her eyes, 
wide and eager, fixed on him. 

“ Please,” she cried breathlessly, “what do 
Chinese pirates fight with?” 

“Good Lord!” He stared at her with a 
look of the utmost astonishment. “Why do 
you want to know?” 

A vivid tide of color swept over her face. 
“I — I beg your pardon!” she said, hastily; 
and prompted him — “ ‘ a freight quay similar 
to the one we built in Hongkong harbor — ’ 
— yes?” 

He waved away the letter. “What have 
you to do with Chinese pirates?” he insisted. 

“Never mind,” she answered. “I — I for- 
got.” 

He nodded gravely. “ I see.” 

Settling himself comfortably in his chair, he 
thrust his hands deep in his pockets, while his 
gaze wandered off over her head. His voice 
began its level drawl : 


22 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


“ There ’s a muddy river running into Hong- 
kong harbor, and it’s alive with ’em. I’ve 
seen ’em fight at sunrise, when they left the 
water streaked with blood. They’ve got a 
kind of chattering war cry, and they’re out 
upon you from the reeds like a swarm of 
yellow- jackets. They fight with almost any- 
thing — antiquated guns, cutlasses, bamboo 
rods tipped with iron — ” 

The girl’s fingers dropped from the keys. 
She sat listening hungrily, her gray-green eyes 
staring down the length of the balcony. For 
ten minutes the impersonal voice drawled on, 
feeding her hungry mind with pictures of that 
yellow river and its sinister craft, until every 
detail of her surroundings had faded away 
and she stood with him on the deck of a reek- 
ing junk and drank deep of carnage. 

“Well, well, where were we?” He sat up 
briskly and looked at her with his cool gaze. 
She became at once her professional self, with 
fingers poised over the typewriter keys, and 
only a faint afterglow in her cheeks. He took 


THE MAN FROM BAGDAD 


23 


up his dictation. To all outward appearances 
he had forgotten her existence as he took the 
last letter from her hand and went on his way 
with a short “Thanks. Good-afternoon.” 

But the next day he came down the length 
of the floor with his deliberate stride and 
paused in Judy’s doorway. Instead of the 
usual sheaf of letters, he held in his hand a 
copy of a tattered weekly. Characteristically, 
he plunged without preliminaries into what he 
had to say. 

“ How in thunder,” he exclaimed, “ did you 
ever hear of Mekran?” 

She threw a dismayed glance at the paper 
in his hand, and recognized the first page of 
Lost in Baluchistan , by J. Gray. Number 
Nine had betrayed her. 

“ I read about it in a book,” she stammered. 

He nodded grimly and sat down. “ I thought 
so — otherwise you’d never have made your 
hero and heroine escape inland over the plain 
of Mekran. They ’d have died of thirst within 
a week after they left the coast! And that 


24 


THE BEAR'S CLAWS 


open boat you speak of — do you remember the 
pictures of spouting whales in the old geog- 
raphies? Well, you couldn’t go out in a boat 
along the whole shore of Mekran without 
being surrounded by spouting whales ! There 
are plenty of high-pooped native craft like 
ancient galleys dodging into its shallow waters, 
and you ’d like them : they carry slave-traders 
and gun-runners a-plenty, but no one ever goes 
back of the range of yellow hills. It’s the hot- 
test land of all Asia. The sand rolls in waves 
across a sterile plain. There are no oases. The 
country is dry, desolate, damned. I know, for 
I ’ve seen it. Buried in those yellow sands are 
the ruins of great cities — cities that Cyrus may 
have pillaged and Alexander burned, as they 
say he burned Persepolis. . . 

Judy’s fingers instinctively felt for her pen- 
cil; her eyes glittered hungrily. “Have you 
seen them — those cities — the Gulf, and the 
whales spouting?” 

“Yes, and they’re dreadfully — frightfully 
— lonesome!” 


THE MAN FROM BAGDAD 


25 


She winced. “ Please don’t. When you ’ve 
dreamed about places until you can shut your 
eyes and see them, you don’t want to hear 
they’re not what you want them to be, do 
you?” 

He gave a short, dry chuckle. “ I don’t 
dream about places — it’s my business to see 
them,” he said. 

She threw out her arms impatiently towards 
the noisy rotunda. “And I! I’ve lived on 
pavements all my life, or in places like this. 
I ’ve never seen anything! ” 

“ Except pirates, and battles, and Baluchis- 
tan ; and you write about them! ” 

Her reserved, pale mask seemed to crack 
and be consumed as if by a sudden flaring up 
of a long suppressed rebellion. She turned 
upon him fiercely. 

“And so would you if it kept you from 
going mad with the sameness of things! Sup- 
pose you lived in a treadmill, and one day you 
discovered you had only to shut your eyes to 
float out into another world where there are 


26 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


color and things happening, glaring light, and 
men dying — not in a bed between brick walls, 
but under the sun or the moon ! Oh, I suppose 
there’s something queer about me, but I could 
always see with my eyes shut. It only takes a 
little thing to start the pictures. A few lines 
out of a book, or a shadow in the street, and 
I ’m thousands of miles from here, thank the 
Lord! I know the stuff I write isn’t very 
good, but the boys like it, and some of it sells. 
But that isn’t the reason I write about Balu- 
chistan and Hongkong and the South Seas. 
I suppose I write about the ends of the world 
because I’m hungry for — for — I don’t know 
what. Something different — life, maybe ! ” 
Leaning in the doorway, he considered her 
thoughtfully. “ Romance. I suppose all girls 
dream about romance! ” 

She looked up scornfully. “ I got over girls’ 
dreams a long time ago. The adventures I 
see when I shut my eyes aren’t pink-and-white 
ones. I don’t want the things most girls want. 


THE MAN FROM BAGDAD 


27 


I couldn’t write a love story to save my life. 
I wish I ’d been born a man I” 

He looked at her, so very feminine in every 
detail, slender-fingered, indefinably fragrant, 
and then he frowned. 

“ Don’t talk nonsense!” he said, curtly. 

He could not have explained it, but it hurt 
him to hear her wishing she had been born a 
man. He continued to look at her reflectively. 
He was thinking of the waste of beauty there 
was in the world. This girl was beautiful 
when she was happy, and her soul on fire. If 
she had been born under a kinder star, there 
would never have been that hard set to her 
chin, or the restless look in her eyes. Her hair 
would have been burnished and coiffured, her 
cheeks pink, her skin exquisite; her slender, 
ink-stained fingers would have polished rose- 
leaf nails ; her rounded body the pretty clothes 
appropriate to it. She would be guarded and 
happy* and as pretty a girl as ever took tea 
expensively in the drawing-rooms of the Great 


28 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


Southern. He looked into her face with his 
keen, speculative gaze, and saw that the artifi- 
cial light of the mezzanine balcony brought 
out a violet shadow under her eyes. 

“What you need,” he said, gruffly, “are 
good beefsteaks and fresh air. Do you get 
them?” 

“I’m not starving — for food!” she cried, 
indignantly. And he went away as abruptly 
as he had appeared. 

That was the beginning of an odd sort of 
friendship between Judy Gray and the Man 
from Bagdad. She typed for him many let- 
ters and reports of the Eastern Securities 
Company; and often when the letters were 
done they left the office and ranged the world 
together. From Cape Farewell to Van Die- 
man’s Land; from the Gulf of Pechili to the 
Black Sea; from the Straits Settlements to 
Reykjavik. Cape Town, St. Petersburg, Tiflis, 
Samarkand! The names thrilled her. One 
afternoon, when he had told her about a hold- 


THE MAN FROM BAGDAD 


29 


up of caravans in the Khyber Pass, she burst 
out, despairingly: 

“Oh, the stories I could write, if I had seen 
what you have seen! Why haven’t you writ- 
ten your life?” 

Savidge laughed. “Because I’ve lived it! 
A man doesn’t write about how he got up, 
worked, and went to bed, does he? I’ve been 
too busy to juggle with words. I ’ll give the 
stories to you for what they ’re worth. There ’s 
one I could tell you — ” 

He stopped abruptly and looked at her as 
if something in her eager face had shifted his 
mind on a new tack. “The best story of ’em 
all isn’t finished yet. Some day I’ll tell it to 
you; but you’ll have to promise not to write 
it until I ’ve left the country.” 

She flicked some dust carefully from her 
typewriter. “ Are you going away soon? ” 

Savidge walked over to the edge of the bal- 
cony*and stood staring down into the busy 
rotunda. The short day was drawing to a 


30 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


close, and the lights switched on below were 
like clustered moons. There was an increase 
of cheerful bustle as women in furs and pretty 
hats drifted down a corridor from afternoon 
tea in the reception rooms, and men hurried 
to finish their business before the dinner hour. 
For a long time Savidge stood looking down 
at the scene. “‘On the other side the world 
I’m overdue,”’ he quoted under his breath. 
Then, with a shrug of his shoulders, as if he 
threw off a sudden oppression, he turned to 
Judy. 

She was silently pinning on her hat. He 
watched her tugging on a pair of little rub- 
bers, adjusting her hat with deft fingers. The 
typewriter stood shrouded for the night. J udy’s 
coat hung over a chair. With the eclipse of 
the typewriter and the appearance of Judy’s 
things, gloves, veil, and rubbers, a different 
atmosphere seemed to have crept subtly into 
the bronze cage. 

“You’re going home, I suppose?” he said. 

“Yes; it’s meat pie night at my boarding- 


THE MAN FROM BAGDAD 


3i 


house, and if I ’m late it will be more pie than 
meat for me!” 

She took up her coat with a sigh. He held 
it for her and then walked towards the door. 
Suddenly he turned with brisk decision, a rare 
smile on his lips. 

“ You ’re going out to dinner with me, Miss 
Gray. Now wait ! I know what you ’re going 
to say: you’re not in the habit of taking sup- 
per with your customers — as if I did n’t know 
that! But tonight is tonight. It’s a queer 
thing, but I ’m lonesome. I never know what 
it is, as a rule, to want company; but tonight 
— well, I don’t want to eat alone tonight.” 

She stood looking up at him with wide, 
doubtful eyes. As he noticed again the faint 
violet shadows under them, he put out an 
authoritative hand. 

“ Come, you look tired. I don’t think meat 
pie is what you need tonight. And I ’m sick 
of eating alone. Do you know, Miss Gray, 
it has been over four years since I saw a 
woman’s face across the table, if you don’t 


32 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


count a steamer table. And a month from now 
I ’ll be where men don’t dine with women. 
You’ll come, won’t you?” 

She thought it over wistfully. And then 
she looked up with a sudden frankness that 
was charming. “ I should love to come! I ’m 
so tired of a boarding-house! But it will have 
to be some place not too grand. I’m not 
dressed for dining out.” 

Darkness had already fallen when they 
stepped into the street. Lights were blazing 
up and down the avenue, and the homeward 
rush had begun. The girl’s eyes were very 
bright; she was frankly delighted to have 
escaped for one evening from the boarding- 
house meat pie. As she tripped along beside 
him, talking gayly, his own spirits soared sud- 
denly. He felt all at once like a boy with an 
unexpected holiday. 


CHAPTER III 

THE GREAT GAME 

A CROSS the small table with its pink- 
hooded lights and glistening silver he 
saw her for the first time as a girl, not 
an industrious typist, nor a dreamer of absurd 
adventures, but a woman with shining eyes and 
a wistful mouth. Details that he had not been 
aware of in the light of the mezzanine gallery 
came out under the shaded lamps of their quiet 
corner: a whimsical turn to her smile; flecks 
of tawny fire in the gray-green iris of her 
eyes; the white slenderness of her throat; a 
cobwebby appearance in her hair, as if some- 
one had blown clouds of smoke through it. 
She had a square little chin and a way of look- 
ing squarely and frankly out of her gray eyes 
that he had never seen in a girl before. He 
liked her pleasure in the bright room and her 
honest enjoyment of the dinner he ordered. 

33 


34 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


They had a filet mignon, a Breton salad, and 
Nesselrode puddings, because Judy admitted 
never having tasted these commonplaces to the 
haunter of restaurants. He pretended to an 
appetite, but most of the time he watched her 
for the sheer pleasure it gave him to see her 
eating away happily, to watch the color deepen 
in her cheeks and the tired look leave her eyes. 

A week before, he would not have believed 
that he could get any enjoyment out of a tete- 
a-tete dinner with a girl; but now it seemed 
the most natural thing in the world to be 
sitting here, listening to a girl’s voice, drop- 
ping a word now and then himself, but mostly 
watching her smile, her little hands, her shin- 
ing eyes, or listening for her infrequent, rip- 
pling laugh. He had never known a woman 
before that could be sociably silent. Judy’s 
silences were as companionable as her conver- 
sation; they gave him a luxurious feeling of 
rest and sympathy, as if after numerous bleak 
years he had got home. 

The talk flowed without effort. They dis- 


THE GREAT GAME 


35 


covered a common interest in the great 
wanderers — Sir Richard Burton, Stevenson, 
Borrow. The last, she admitted, being a little 
too pottering for her. 

“ He traveled with a microscope,” she said, 
“and left his imagination at home!” 

“And you would travel like Mercury, or 
Puck!” he smiled. 

The stormy night outside their window em- 
phasized the intimate quiet of their corner. 
All the selfish dinners he had eaten in solitude 
trooped before him, and all the lonely dinners 
to come suddenly oppressed him. Judy had 
grown quiet. Over the coffee they both fell 
silent. The girl’s eyelids drooped as if she 
was tired. He began to wonder about her: 
Who were her friends? How did she live 
in the hours outside the office? What pleas- 
ures did she have? What was her philos- 
ophy of life? Leaning back in his chair, he 
contemplated the enigma of the girl across the 
table until she looked up and met his eyes. 

“ Have you a mother and father? ” he asked. 


3 6 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


She accepted the question as simply as it was 
put. “No, I have no one very near to me. 
My mother died when I was ten, my father 
two years ago. He had the wanderlust too, 
poor old dad! Always wandering when he 
should have been working. And that is all he 
left me when he died, that and a wonderful 
collection of maps.” 

Her face lighted up. She pushed aside her 
coffee cup. “You should see my maps! I ’ve 
traveled all over the world on them. When 
I ’m too tired to write, I get out my bottle of 
red ink and — ” 

She stopped abruptly, looking sidewise at 
him, with an embarrassed smile. “ Promise 
you won’t laugh.” 

“ I never felt less like laughing in my life,” 
he replied, truthfully. 

“Well, the red ink marks the trail I’m 
going to follow some day when I’ve saved 
enough money. It will take a long time, but 
I’m going! Straight down the Pacific to the 


THE GREAT GAME 


37 


South Seas, across to Burma, then to Man- 
dalay.” 

She drew a map on the tablecloth with the 
point of a fork. 

Suddenly he put out his hand and laid it 
over the tracing fingers. 

“ Don’t do it,” he said, curtly. “ Adventure, 
the highways of the world, are all very well 
in stories; but you don’t know anything about 
the hardships and dangers. No, no, it won’t 
do for you. You’re better off at home, with 
your own people.” 

“ I have n’t any home that you could call 
home.” 

“ You might marry,” he jerked out. 

Judy nodded serenely. “Of course! A 
grocer. He had a flourishing store, and I 
believe he’s getting rich now. I’d have had 
a nice little flat, a house, probably, by this time, 
with a rubber-plant. And each summer we’d 
take a week at Atlantic City. Ugh! I should 
have hated it!” 


38 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


“You’d have been safe!” said Savidge, 
grimly. 

Her voice was scornful. “ Oh, if that ’s ail ! 
I didn’t think you would talk of safety! Why 
I ’m more afraid of the drudgery, the spirit- 
breaking sameness, of my life than of anything 
else. It’s only the stories and the red-ink route 
on my maps that keep me from — ” 

“ From what?” 

She pushed back her chair. “ I ’m afraid 
I ’ve talked a lot of nonsense,” she said, wearily. 
“Shall we go?” 

Savidge was writing something on a card. 
He gave it to her as he stood up. “When 
you’re on that red-ink cruise,” he said, with 
an effort at lightness, “if you’re ever in any 
difficulty, you’re to send for me. Send to 
each of these addresses — one of them will 
catch me, and I’ll come. Remember — no 
matter where I am, I ’ll come.” 

She took the card and read three addresses 
— in London, in Hongkong, and in Teheran. 


THE GREAT GAME 


39 


“Why,” she laughed, wistfully, “ you ’re a 
citizen of the world, aren’t you?” 

“ I suppose you can call it that.” He smiled 
ironically as he helped her on with her coat. 
“ Sometimes it’s mighty lonesome being a citi- 
zen of the world,” he added. 

That night she dreamed of being wrecked 
on an atoll in the South Pacific; and, as is 
usual after an exciting dream-experience, she 
awoke to a mood of fathomless depression. The 
boarding-house breakfast table was intolerable, 
the mezzanine floor seemed stifling with its 
noises and steam heat, the bronze cage had 
become a prison. All the morning she wrote 
letters about insurance and shoes, and all the 
afternoon she plodded on in a like dreary man- 
ner. At four o’clock she looked up from her 
work to see Savidge coming down the balcony 
towards her. 

His long stride was as deliberate as usual, 
but as he came in at the doorway she had a 
thrill of intuition concerning him. She knew 


40 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


that something had happened to change him 
into a charged wire. He took the chair beside 
her with an air, alert and gay, that was unusual 
to him. Judy, glancing from the cablegram 
in his hand to his face, had an odd sense of 
expectancy as she poised her fingers over the 
keys. 

“ Dear West,” he dictated, “ I ’m sorry not 
to see you and Mrs. West again, but I haven’t 
time to run down to Lenox. I ’m leaving for 
Teheran immediately. Besides, what should 
I do at Lenox? I don’t play — ” 

He broke off and looked at Judy. “What 
do they play at Lenox, Miss Gray?” 

“ In the summer, tennis and golf, I suppose. 
And all the year around there are plenty of 
beautiful women.” 

He shook his head. “ I don’t play golf, or 
croquet, or tiddledywinks. I haven’t the abil- 
ity. I don’t shake dice, or play roulette, or 
make love to beautiful women — I have n’t the 
luck.” He leaned back in his chair as if he 
had forgotten the letter to West. His eyes 


THE GREAT GAME 


4i 


turned whimsical. “ But there’s one game I 
do play.” 

Judy looked at him from the corner of her 
eye. “Poker?” 

“Yes, but not with cards. I play my poker 
with bridges and railroads and Oriental Gov- 
ernments.” He glanced with a grim smile at 
the cablegram in his hand. “ It does n’t differ 
much from the card game: brain and bluff 
and chance are mixed in about equal propor- 
tion. Well, where did we stop?” 

She prompted him, and he went on with the 
letter: “This morning I had a letter from 
Gholam Rezah’s secretary. He warns me that 
Wolkonsky has left Teheran, supposedly for 
New York. It’s an honor to have the biggest 
man in the Russian Secret Service on my trail, 
but I shall feel easier when I ’ve finally landed 
the bids and contracts in Teheran. Fortu- 
nately, the Company gave me the last papers 
yesterday, and I can get away at once. It will 
be the devil’s own game getting our papers 
through Russian territory and into Teheran. 


42 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


As you know, Russia has had her spies out for 
me for the last three years, but I’m certain 
I ’ve thrown them off the track so far as Mek- 
ran is concerned. There’s not an Asiatic or 
European Government but would consider us 
lunatics to dream of stringing a railroad across 
Mekran; but in order to take no chances I 
left behind me the maps and blue-prints I 
made for the new road. After two attempts 
to smuggle them across the frontier (that was 
a lively business that I ’ll tell you about some 
time), I decided to cache them in the safest 
place in all Persia. If anything should hap- 
pen to me, I want you to know where they are, 
so that you can get them for the Company. 
In such case you will find them hidden in a 
tomb in — ” 

He stopped abruptly. “ Do you spell your 
name with an a or an e, Miss Gray?” 

“With an a,” she said, wonderingly, and 
watched him as he wrote some figures on the 
back of an envelope. He dictated them to her 
slowly, showing her how to space them. She 


THE GREAT GAME 


43 


looked up, as she wrote the last figure, with 
an irrepressible sparkle in her eyes. 

“ A cipher !” 

Savidge nodded. “Yes, and all the secret- 
service experts in the world couldn’t make 
head nor tail to it without the key-word, which 
only you and I know.” 

“II” Her eyes widened. “How do I 
know it?” 

“It’s your own name, the prettiest name I 
know. It makes a good key-word. Some day 
I ’ll teach you the cipher, if you like.” 

“Shall I read these figures again?” Her 
professional voice was not quite steady. 

“It isn’t necessary. They represent the 
name of a lost city.” 

“A lost city! What a setting for a story!” 
she exclaimed under her breath. 

Savidge dropped loosely into a chair in 
front of her. Resting his arms on the type- 
written sheet, he looked at her with a long, 
quiet scrutiny. He seemed to have forgotten 
once more the letter to West. 


44 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


11 Most of anything in the world, you want 
a chance to make stories, don’t you? ” he asked 
her. She nodded, her face flaming to vivid 
interest. Savidge considered her for a deliber- 
ate moment. Then he said : 

“ Judy — ” the name came from his lips as 
if he had loved it all his life — “Judy, I’m 
going to give you a chance at the biggest story 
you ever dreamed of. I ’m going to give you 
a chance — and I think you’ll take it. Listen 
carefully, now.” 

He spread out his letters and notes on the 
table between them, and she bent over her 
copy-pad. It was their concession to the 
passers-by in the mezzanine gallery. To all 
outward appearances, they were hard at work. 
Savidge’s voice sank to its quietest, most level 
drawl. 

“ There’s a Lost City over in Persia, half 
buried in the sand. Kings have lived there. 
They say a king destroyed it finally at the lift 
of a woman’s finger. . But now, even its name 
is forgotten. I saw it once by moonlight, all 


THE GREAT GAME 


45 


that’s left of it, a colossal flight of steps sweep- 
ing up to a great stone plateau, and on it out- 
landish columns, black against the stars. The 
natives shun it for terror of its carved beasts 
and gods. It’s left to the lion and the lizard; 
but they ’re keeping guard now over something 
three nations would pay big money to possess. 
For there’s a game going on in Persia, a game 
of railroads. It ’s a little like chess and a good 
deal like poker. It’s played with kings and 
castles (one is my Lost City) ; with bridges 
and steel rails for chips, and a thousand square 
miles of Asia for a table.” 

The crow’s-feet came out about his eyes. He 
looked beyond Judy, as if he could visualize 
the playing of that game. 

“ Have you ever stopped to think about the 
poetry of railroads?” he went on. “Espe- 
cially when it’s a case of two lines of steel 
flung across a country that was old when Cleo- 
patra was young, that has seen fabulous treas- 
ure carried century after century by caravan, 
that lies like an unopened jewel-box in the 


4 6 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


paths of two great powers? That’s Persia. 
The country that builds the first great trans- 
Persian railroad will tap a gold mine and 
hold the key to the politics of Asia. England 
and Germany have awakened to that fact, and 
Russia — well, Russia is on the job like a bear 
after a bee-tree!” 

“ But you never read anything about it in 
the papers!” she cried. 

He smiled broadly. “ I should say not! The 
game is being played behind the door. I could 
count almost on one hand the diplomats and 
financiers that are really next to it. Over here 
there are certain great captains that have a 
vision of some day controlling enough railroad 
and steamship lines to girdle the globe. Today 
Persia is their game. They’ve been working 
for ten years, underground, so to speak, and 
it looks now as if there was going to be a show- 
down. It means millions to them, to say 
nothing of a big link in the world-chain of 
railroads. That’s why we’re trying to raise 
the Czar out of the game. And I think, I 


THE GREAT GAME 


47 


think, Miss Judy Gray, that we’re going to 
do it!” 

He met her eyes with his exultant gaze. She 
felt oddly excited, as if she had climbed a 
mountain peak and looked down into a new 
world. “ But you — ” she said, in a breathless 
voice — “ what do you have to do with it?” 

“I? Oh, I’m playing the game for the 
honor of the service. It ’s all in the day’s work 
for me. The captains wanted an engineer, and 
they sent me. For ten years I ’ve held a roving 
commission to wander up and down the world’s 
end until I master the railroad possibilities of 
the Orient. Well, I ’ve come back with my 
report, and they’ve said it’s good. Now — ” 

“Well?” she breathed, as he paused. 

“Does all this bore you? I suppose you’re 
wondering where the story begins, where you 
come in?” 

“Where I come in?” 

He paused as if he were considering the 
best way to put it. 

“You tell me you want more than anything 


48 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


else to see the world, so that you can write 
about it. Well, I ’m offering you your chance. 
I’m going back to Persia to see this thing 
through to the finish. And I ’m going to take 
back with me my wife. How long will it take 
you to get ready, Miss Gray?” 

She looked at him speechlessly. 11 1 — I 
don’t understand!” 

“ It ’s very simple. You want something that 
I can give you ; why should n’t you take it? ” 
“Oh, you — you mustn’t jest! Why, you 
don’t know me. T o you I’m — ” 

He made an impatient gesture. “ My dear 
young woman ! leave that to me. I know you 
very much better than you think. I know 
you so well I ’m not going to leave you here 
drudging away your youth, when I can give 
you what you’re starving for. Over there in 
the East you ’ll have your chance.” 

He stopped abruptly and bent over her 
shoulder as if to read from the typewritten 
page. “ Don’t move, don’t look up, Miss Gray, 


THE GREAT GAME 


49 


until I tell you to. There ’s a man at the end 
of the mezzanine floor, facing this way. When 
he goes down the stairs I want you to look at 
him and tell me if you Ve ever seen him before. 
There, he ’s going down ; now look ! ” 

Judy glanced through the filigree work of 
the cage. A man in evening clothes was walk- 
ing slowly down the main stairway. He was 
tall, broad-shouldered, slender-hipped, with 
a slightly sallow, olive-tinted skin — a very 
handsome man, she decided. A trim, black, 
upturned mustache gave a touch of insolence 
to his expression. There was a noticeable 
sang-froid in his walk and in the way he 
carried his shoulders. 

“He’s never been a guest here before — at 
least, not in my time,” she said. 

Savidge was looking after the stranger with 
a puzzled squint to his eyes. “Now, where 
have I seen him before? Somewhere, the 
other side of the world — I have it! Samar- 
kand, the night the caravanserai was raided. 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


50 

That’s the place. I saw his face through 
powder-smoke ... he didn’t wear evening 
dress that night!” 

“ What is he? ” she whispered. But Savidge 
was staring down into the rotunda. 

“Yesterday, Samarkand; today, New York; 
tomorrow — well, if Allah bring us to meet, 
we meet.” 

He turned briskly to Judy, a glint of excite- 
ment in his eyes. “ We ’ll go on with the letter, 
please; where were we?” 

“At the cipher.” 

“Thanks. Take this, please: 4 1 am send- 
ing a map and the key-word. I have to thank 
Mrs. West for her suggestion as to my new 
role. I had about exhausted the part of schol- 
arly archaeologist in that section of Persia, and 
I ’m going back as a married tourist. We leave 
tonight. My wife regrets not having the oppor- 
tunity to meet Mrs. West’ — you do regret it, 
don’t you, Miss Gray?” 

She turned towards him a white face and 
blazing eyes. 


THE GREAT GAME 


51 

“Oh!” was all she said. But the monosyl- 
lable was packed to the bursting point with 
indignation, protest, and bewilderment. Sav- 
idge rose quietly, and very quietly put a brown 
hand over hers. 

“Judy, steady now! Don’t you trust me?” 

She looked at him, at his grave eyes first, 
and then at his mouth with its quizzical half- 
smile. Her gaze searched him through and 
through, as if it would find his soul and bring 
it up to the surface. Then she nodded, still 
looking at him wistfully. 

“ I do believe in you,” she said. 

He fetched a long breath. “Then that’s 
all right! The rest is simple. We’ll have to 
be married at once and get away tonight. 
There’s a boat tomorrow from Montreal to 
Liverpool. It’s the longest way around, but 
under the circumstances it will be by far 
the — ” 

“ Why do you want to marry me ? ” she inter- 
rupted him, passionately. “Me! a nobody, a 
stenographer with whom you’ve transacted 


52 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


business. Is it — ” her voice trembled — “is 
it because you’re sorry for me?” 

A curious expression came into Savidge’s 
eyes. He was silent for a moment; then he 
smiled at her with a sudden lighting up of his 
face. Taking her small hand, he held it gently 
and stood looking down at it as it lay in his 
palm. 

“ Maybe,” he said. “We can call it that if 
you like. But maybe it’s because I need you. 
It wouldn’t be fair if I didn’t tell you both 
sides. I can give you what you want most, a 
chance to see the whole wide world and see it 
right. I ’m not what they call rich down on 
Wall Street; but I guess most everything 
you’ll want you can have. But sometimes 
there’ll be hardships and sometimes danger. 
I ’ve seen cholera at Bokhara and smallpox at 
Samarkand, those romantic places you dream 
about! And I’ve dodged spies until it’s be- 
come second nature. Twice there’s been a 
price on my head; and there’s not a court in 
Southern Europe that won’t celebrate when I 


THE GREAT GAME 


53 


cash in! But it’s a great game, this skirmish- 
ing ahead of the railroad — and the woman 
that plays it with me will taste life, by gad! 
Judy, there’s just one woman in the world that 
can play the game with me. I ’ve known you 
were that woman since the first time we talked 
together. You ’ll make a good wife and a good 
comrade ; but, above everything, you ’ll always 
play the game. 1 ’ 

“ How do you know?” she whispered. 

“ From your eyes. From the way your face 
lights when you see a story. F rom the way you 
look at men. From the things you don’t do. 
From your hands, from your laugh — and 
from the way you take an order.” 

“ I might betray you.” 

“You never will.” 

She leaned forward and looked at him with 
a touch of something that was akin to awe in 
her expression. 

“What sort of man are you? Do you mean 
to say you can trust me like that? ” 

“But aren’t you trusting me even more, 


54 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


little Judy? No, let’s be done with that word 
trust. I know you, and I know myself. I 
believe I can make you happy and keep you 
safe. There’s nothing more to be said about 
it, is there?” 

She met his eyes squarely, her face redden- 
ing. “ But there is something more to be said. 
I don’t — I don’t love you. I should be tak- 
ing more than I gave. It is n’t fair. You offer 
me the world and I take it just because I want 
to live and see things and write my stories. Is 
that the way a woman should feel when she 
marries a man?” 

He gave the hand he held a little pat and 
released it. 

“ I ’m not worrying in the least about that, 
Judy. If you like it better that way we’ll be 
comrades, call it a partnership in adventure. 
There ’s many a marriage made on a less honest 
basis than that. I ’m not worrying, because I ” 
— a serene smile flitted across his face — “be- 
cause I know more about human nature than 
you do ! ” 


THE GREAT GAME 


55 


Judy walked over and stood looking down 
with unseeing eyes at the floor of the rotunda. 
She had a curious light-headed feeling of 
excitement, of terror, and of sheer, unbeliev- 
able happiness. She had dreamed many 
dreams; but she had had nothing like this 
vision of the great highways of the world that 
suddenly opened out to her. She saw them 
stretching away before her, through a shim- 
mering haze, straight to the goal of her heart’s 
desire. Never again need she know the blank 
gray days when vision would not come; never 
again the fear of losing them altogether, never 
again the pinch of poverty. With the high- 
ways of the world spread at her feet it was as 
if a door to inexhaustible treasure had opened 
to her. 

“Oh, the stories I could write!” she whis- 
pered, and instinctively her fingers felt for the 
pencil in her hair. Then with a sudden start 
of dismay she bumped up against the prac- 
tical reality of things. She turned towards 
Savidge entreatingly. 


56 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


“ I must think. Tomorrow ...” she 
began. 

His face turned grim. He drew her 
towards the edge of the mezzanine balcony 
and nodded in the direction of a writing-room 
that opened off the rotunda. The man she had 
seen sat reading just inside this door, the light 
from a shaded lamp bringing out the olive- 
tinted pallor of his face. 

“ That ’s Wolkonsky,” he said. “ I ’ve never 
seen him in the light before; but I know it’s 
the chief just as I know you’re you. You 
remember what I said about him in the letter 
to West?” 

“The biggest man in the Russian Secret 
Service,” she repeated. 

“Exactly. Well, he’s the reason why 
tomorrow won’t do. I leave for Montreal 
tonight. The game begins. Do you want to 
play it with me?” 

For a breathless minute she stood looking 
at him with wide-open eyes, the pupils black, 
the irises flecked with fire. Then suddenly she 


THE GREAT GAME 


57 


made a sound in her throat that was half a 
sob and half a trill of laughter. 

“Oh, it’s absurd. It’s — it’s crazy! Peo- 
ple don’t do things like that.” 

“Not ordinary people. But you will.” 

She stood still in the middle of the bronze 
cage. In her throat a pulse was beating as if 
it would choke her. She felt a sudden nausea 
with the stifling, stunting life in which she had 
fought for breath, in which she would fight 
for years to come. She put out her hand and 
^touched his arm with her finger tips. 

“ I ’m coming with you ! ” she whispered. 

“Good little soldier!” he said, cheerfully 
ignoring the white nervousness of her face. 
“All we have to do now is to be married. 
Then you can go around to your boarding- 
house and get what you need. There’s a train 
at eleven-something. Come on, Comrade!” 

But she hung back, her face no longer pale, 
but rosily embarrassed. 

“But how — one has to have a — a license, 
or something, doesn’t one?” 


58 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


He looked down at her with the expression 
she was to see very often in the days to come, 
humorous, whimsical, with a touch of some- 
thing she could not then see, a deep and pro- 
tecting tenderness. 

“ My dear Judy, one does! ” he said gravely. 
“ Do you see that young man lingering down 
there near the news-stand? That’s the regis- 
trar’s clerk. He has the license in his pocket, 
ready for you to sign. I arranged all that this 
morning.” 


CHAPTER IV 

AN OUTPOST OF CIVILIZATION 

T HROUGH the principal passage of the 
bazaars of Tiflis, on an afternoon a 
month later, the stream of bazaar fre- 
quenters was swept before the reckless wheels 
of a Russian troika. It was drawn by three 
horses abreast and occupied by a bejewelled 
personage, who regarded the scurrying pedes- 
trians with an indolent condescension. Ahead 
of the carriage ran a huge black farash , bran- 
dishing a steel mace as a drum-major wields a 
baton, urging before him the pushing, crawl- 
ing crowd and raising his cry of 

“ Khabadar! Khabadar — make way! make 
way!” 

Before him buyers and sellers, pilgrims and 
merchants from many lands, money-changers 
and a rabble of filthy, clamoring beggars gave 
59 


6o 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


way, while donkeys and pack-mules jostled the 
fleeing crowd. Intoxicated with his brief mo- 
ment of power, the big bully charged the 
crowd, laying about him with his mace and 
roaring exuberantly. Thus he had reached 
the center of the bazaars and the booth of a 
silversmith from Byzantium, when over the 
heads of the throng he caught sight of a man’s 
hat, conspicuously the hat of a European. 
With a shout of “Farangi [foreigner]!” he 
bounded towards the hat, grinning with 
delight, clearing his master’s path with fresh 
enthusiasm. 

For half an hour Mr. and Mrs. John 
Savidge had been lingering in front of the 
silversmith’s booth, Judy watching with fas- 
cinated eyes a miracle of craftsmanship that 
flowered under the silversmith’s incredible 
hands — and Savidge watching Judy. At the 
moment when the zealous footman came in 
sight of them, Savidge stepped inside the booth 
to examine a shirt of mail that hung against 
the brick wall. In the general din of the ba- 


OUTPOST OF CIVILIZATION 6 1 


zaar Judy had not noticed the increased 
clamor until the brazen voice of the farash 
smote her ears. She looked up with a start. 
An Armenian money-changer, who had been 
haggling at her elbow, whirled and swept her 
out into the passageway. At her back was a 
pack-mule and its frantic driver, while in front 
of her the farash bawled : 

“ Zud! Zud! Tez! Tez! [Quick! hurry 
up!]” 

From side to side he swung his mace, grin- 
ning evilly as he advanced upon her. She had 
a glimpse behind him of the three horses 
abreast, of the crowd shrinking and scrambling 
away from the wheels of the troika, with 
barely room to save their toes, and, in front of 
the silversmith’s booth, of Savidge turning 
sharply to look for her. She tried to slip back 
to where he stood, but the farash suddenly 
swirled his mace above her head and jostled 
her roughly against the wall. 

He had on his tongue the beginning of a 
peculiarly Oriental observation on the stand- 


62 


THE BEAR’S CLAW'S 


ing of unveiled women, when Savidge’s arm 
shot out and his fist landed on the side of the 
black jaw. With a droll expression of aston- 
ishment the lackey went sprawling to the 
ground. Savidge pushed Judy back into the 
silversmith’s booth just as the troika rumbled 
down upon them. The bejewelled man in the 
carriage half rose and his hand sought the gold 
hilt of a heavy-bladed kinjal. Then his glance 
took in Savidge and he bowed with grave 
Oriental courtesy. 

“ Peace be unto you,” he said. 

“ Peace be with you, Meshadi,” returned 
Savidge with equal gravity. And the troika 
rolled on. 

Judy looked from her husband to the heavy 
back of the man in the troika. “ He knew 
you,” she said. “ I could tell that by his eyes.” 

Savidge nodded. “We’ve met before — on 
official business. And if I know the East we ’ll 
meet again — on official business. That was 
the Khadkhuda, the chief magistrate and the 
biggest scoundrel unhanged in Tiflis.” 


OUTPOST OF CIVILIZATION 63 


Judy looked up at his face, which had 
grown suddenly stern, and a shadow passed 
over her own. His quick eyes saw it at once. 
He slipped his hand under her arm and drew 
her over to the silversmith’s bench. 

“Don’t you bother your head, Judy. See, 
which of these bracelets do you choose?” 

With a long sigh of satisfaction she turned 
to the old Byzantine craftsman, who had con- 
tinued placidly turning and twisting his sil- 
ver filaments into fairy-like designs. And be- 
hind her the many-hued tide swept again 
through the mazes of the bazaar. She had not 
been two days in Tiflis and already the bazaars 
had caught her in their spell. She moved as 
one in a dream through the mysterious half- 
twilight of the great roofed rabbit-warren, 
drinking in the sights and sounds around her. 
It seemed to her the most seductive buying 
place in the world, these acres of bazaars 
where buyers and sellers haggled in the four- 
score dialects of Asia over carpets from Kur- 
distan, shawls of price from Cashmere, daz- 


6 4 


THE BEAR'S CLAWS 


zling broideries from Shiraz, tiger skins from 
Mazanderan, turquoises from the mines of 
Nishapur, and pearls from the Persian Gulf; 
where merchants chaffered over cotton prints 
from Moscow and Manchester and silken 
stuffs from Samarkand; where tourists bar- 
tered for wavy swords and daggers from 
Daghestan, for coats of mail inlaid with pre- 
cious metals, for coffee-sets in silver filigree 
and Persian jugs wrought in yellow gold. 
Along these clamorous passageways camel- 
drivers, bronzed and bearded, piloted their 
lumbering desert craft; muleteers in baggy 
trousers and sheepskin shirts shrieked at their 
wag-eared charges, lashed them under the 
belly and pummelled them through the maze 
of commerce. And over everything was the 
smell Judy was never to forget, the smell of 
the scraggly-coated camels, the reek of 
latakia, the fumes of spices and burning san- 
dal-wood, the scent of musk and bergamot, 
the stench of narrow enclosed passageways and 
dung-befouled caravan courts — all mingling 


OUTPOST OF CIVILIZATION 65 


in the unforgettable and indescribable odor of 
the East. 

It was as if she had rubbed the Magic Lamp 
and accommodating elves had transported her 
from the bronze cage in the mezzanine balcony 
straight to the Land of Enchantment. The 
shadowy arcades were peopled with wavering 
shapes — calendars and viziers perhaps, or 
ghouls and genii, for aught she knew; and she 
would not have been surprised if at any mo- 
ment the lordly bearded Haroun Al-Rashid 
himself had stepped out to bid her a royal 
welcome to the East. 

“I’m sure I’ll wake up in Brooklyn,” she 
said; “and if I do I shall die of disappoint- 
ment!” 

Savidge fended off with his elbow a mangy 
pack-mule that was unconcernedly crowding 
Judy to the wall. “I’ve known tourists that 
talked about the romance of the East at home 
and then took the next steamer back when 
they smelled the Orient. You don’t mind the 
bad smells or the dirt, do you, Judy?” 


66 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


She looked up at him with laughter in her 
eyes. “ Honestly, I ’ve never been so happy 
in my life!” 

A deep look of contentment came into Sav- 
idge’s face. But he only said : “ Come along 
with me if you want to see an Oriental deli- 
catessen shop.” 

In an arched recess at the end of a passage- 
way stood a dastarkhan twinkling with tapers. 
The long table was heaped with Oriental kick- 
shaws — cream-tarts and confections com- 
pounded of almonds, pistachios and citrus 
fruits; earthen pots running over with car- 
rots chopped in honey; rice balls stuccoed 
with raisins and spices (which the natives 
dexterously pop into the mouth), shaved ice 
smothered in syrups; bricks of fragrant tea 
(the Chai of Central Asia and the Lonka of 
the Far East), ready to be crumbled into tall 
glasses and covered with water from the samo- 
vars. High up under the vaulted roof of the 
bazaars the dun-gray shadows were gathering; 
on every hand the smoky gloom deepened; 


OUTPOST OF CIVILIZATION 67 


and in front of them the tapers made golden 
points of light in a mysterious blue twilight. 
The face of the vender of goodies shone like 
a moon of old ivory as he snuffed a taper 
and then went into eclipse among the shadows 
of the booth. Judy’s eyes gleamed whim- 
sically as she turned to Savidge. 

“Do you believe in Fairyland?” she asked 
him. 

He regarded her gravely. “Sure! I knew 
a fellow once who had been there.” 

“And you never told me!” 

“Oh, you see, it happened ever so long 
ago, thousands of years ago, in fact. He was 
a King of Babylon, or some other outlandish 
place. For a good many years His Majesty 
had dreamed of a princess; but as year fol- 
lowed year and he did not find her, he began 
to think of the quest as hopeless. Then one 
night, by chance, he wandered into Fairy- 
land.” 

“Was she really very beautiful?” asked 
Judy. Oddly enough, her face had fallen. 


68 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


Savidge nodded. “He thought so that 
night when she tucked her hand under his 
arm and they walked down the Main Street 
of Fairyland. And afterward, as they sat 
under the fairy lights and he looked across 
the table into her eyes, he knew that at last 
the right princess had been found.” The 
shadow of a smile flickered across the serious 
face. “Oh, yes, they have restaurants in 
Fairyland — where they serve the most won- 
derful filet mignon and the divinest Nessel- 
rode puddings!” 

A swift confusion appeared in Judy’s man- 
ner. But she said, merely: “I don’t think 
much of that sort of Fairyland where beau- 
tiful princesses stuff themselves with beef and 
pudding!” 

Her voice betrayed nothing of the feeling 
that had made her eyes light up, and Savidge 
turned away, the boyish expression fading 
from his face. 

“We had better get back to the hotel,” he 


OUTPOST OF CIVILIZATION 69 


said. “ I expect Hassan will bring around 
some horses for me to look over.” 

Tiflis is a city of the blithest piquancy in 
the matter of contrasts. The street they fol- 
lowed began in the evil-smelling mazes of an 
Asiatic town and ended in the Hotel de 
Londres, modern and luxurious, the last of its 
kind on the edge of a country of weird food 
and unspeakable caravanserais. From the 
window of a bedroom, as modern in its ap- 
pointments as any in a New York hotel, Judy 
could see the snowy peaks of the Caucasus and 
the faint curve of a caravan trail that had 
been in use a thousand years. 

She dressed for dinner carefully, lingering 
over her bath and brushing her hair with a 
luxurious sense of well-being. It was true 
that she was happier than ever before in her 
life. And every line of her face, even the car- 
riage of her shoulders showed it. Her cheeks 
had taken on a lovely color, her eyes were 
bright with a light that was not the old fever- 


70 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


ish excitement. Now that she had time to 
bestow upon its arrangement, the mop of 
brown hair made a shining aureole about her 
head. Best of all, it seemed to Savidge, she 
had lost the strained and restless look he had 
noticed so often in her face at the end of a day- 
in the mezzanine balcony. 

She opened the door of a wardrobe and 
with her head critically on one side surveyed 
some gowns that hung there. They were new. 
They had been bought in an expensive Lon- 
don establishment, and their presence in Judy’s 
wardrobe indicated a phase of Judy’s develop- 
ment that surprised herself. She had always 
believed herself to be indifferent to clothes; 
but on a provocative spring morning in Lon- 
don, as they strolled down Bond Street, a femi- 
nine instinct, much stronger than any of her 
wise theories, drew her gaze to a window of 
sartorial wonders. Savidge, who even then 
had fallen into the habit of watching her face, 
wheeled and marched inside. She followed, 
protesting: 


OUTPOST OF CIVILIZATION 71 


“But I don’t need them! What should I 
do with chiffon and lacey things on a caravan 
trip?” 

He fingered with the wistful awkwardness 
a man always shows when he touches feminine 
finery a little gown of snow white and silver. 

“I’d like to see you in it, Judy,” he said. 
And the filmy frock, with three others and all 
the appurtenances thereto, found their way to 
Judy’s trunk before she left London. 

She now took from the wardrobe the white- 
and-silver gown, which she had not yet worn, 
and put it on with a reverent touch. She had 
never dreamed of possessing anything so 
miraculously pretty; she felt quite humble be- 
fore it. When she had fastened the last hook, 
she hesitated an instant before she looked at 
herself in the long mirror. 

In the corsage of the white-and-silver frock 
some clever hand had fastened a great satin 
rose of a deep dawn pink. It challenged and 
brought out the faint pink of Judy’s cheeks. 
Her eyes, wide and delighted, met the eyes of 


72 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


the new Judy in the mirror, and slowly a blush 
of sheer astonishment spread over her face. 

“Why, I’m — I’m pretty! — almost!” 

She was quite naively and humbly aston- 
ished. She had never thought of herself as 
being pretty or as possessing any especial 
attraction for men. Aside from the episode of 
the flourishing young grocer that had asked 
her to marry him she had had a very limited 
education, sentimentally. If she had been less 
humble she might have spared herself the tiny, 
unspoken fear that lay always under the sur- 
face of her happiness. The thing that puzzled 
her was Savidge’s motive in marrying her. 
She had herself suggested the outlines of their 
relation; but, woman-like, when he scrupu- 
lously and cheerfully adhered to the outline, 
she felt uneasy and afraid of the future. What 
if he should repent, some day, of the remark- 
able step he had taken? And, after all, what 
had moved him to do such a thing? He had 
never pretended to be in love with her ; she had 


OUTPOST OF CIVILIZATION 73 


a feeling that he was too self-contained, stood 
too strongly on his own feet ever to need her. 
She had most of the time a feeling that it was 
all a fantastic dream, from which she would 
waken some morning, most unwillingly, she 
admitted. 

“ If I am ever able to help him, it will be all 
right,” she thought. “ Then there will be some 
excuse for my being his wife. And in the 
meantime — I would ’nt know you, Judy, in 
that dress!” 

She contemplated the transformed Judy 
Gray in the long mirror, from the toe of a 
cloth-of-silver slipper to the satin rose on her 
breast. And a new, delicious idea flashed 
into her mind that would never have been 
capable of such an idea without the aid of the 
white-and-silver frock. 

“If he should come to — to care for me, 
really, to care — ” 

She started as Savidge opened the door and 
came in. Her cheeks were a deeper pink and 


74 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


her eyes brighter than he had ever seen them. 

“ How — how do you like this dress?” she 
asked him, shyly. 

He lifted with an awkward finger a fold of 
the silver embroidered chiffon that fell away 
from her white shoulder. 

“ You look fine, Judy,” he said, and turned 
to the window as if to change the subject. 

“ I ’ve got a pony for you to ride. Thought 
you could have a few lessons now. It’s a long 
way down to Teheran and a little horseback 
exercise will be a rest from the post-carriages. 
That’s Hassan at the pony’s head, Abdallah 
ibh Hassan — Smith for short.” 

She looked out at a tall Arab that stood gaz- 
ing up at her windows with dignified impas- 
sivity as he held the nose of a sleek brown 
pony. His face was as if carved from oiled 
and polished mahogany; his great black eyes 
were unwinking and unfathomable. 

“ He ’s one of the few men I trust. I ’d put 
my life in old Smith’s hands. In fact it’s been 
in his hands before now.” Savidge made a 


OUTPOST OF CIVILIZATION 


75 


sign of dismissal and then stood thoughtfully 
watching the tall Arab as he mounted the pony 
and rode off. “ I want you to remember, Judy, 
that if anything should happen to me, Hassan 
will look out for you. You can trust him 
absolutely — no matter where you are, he’ll 
take you safely home.” 

Judy’s eyes widened. “ If anything should 
happen ? What do you mean ? ” 

He shrugged one shoulder in the character- 
istic gesture. “This is the East, Judy. The 
game is on, and over here the way of playing 
it is devious and unexpected.” He spoke 
lightly; but she was beginning to understand 
the significance of the lines that sloped down- 
ward from the corners of his mouth when he 
was troubled, and accentuated the natural 
sternness of his face. With a flash of intuition 
her mind flew back to the man in the troika 
and the movement of his jewelled hand 
towards his sword hilt. 

“ That man in the bazaar this afternoon, the 
Khadkhuda, is he against us?” 


76 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


Savidge’s face lighted with one of his rare 
smiles at the “us.” 

“ Dear little Judy! In the game every man 
is against us till he proves he’s for us. But 
you’re not to bother your head.” 

“No, wait!” She put her hand for an 
instant on his arm. “ Don’t tell me I ’m not to 
bother my head! I want to understand, so 
that I can help if you ever need me. You 
asked me to play the game with you, but how 
can I play it with my eyes blindfolded? I 
don’t think I ’m a coward. I want to under- 
stand, as a man’s wife should.” 

He studied her earnest face intently, as if 
he turned over in his mind an idea he had 
entertained before. “That’s true, Judy; you 
can’t play the game unless you know it. I 
wanted you to be happy, just seeing your fill 
of the world; but I guess you’re the kind of 
woman that is happiest as an active partner. 
You know I told you, back there in the Great 
Southern, you’d make a good comrade!” 

“ Then give me a chance? ” 


OUTPOST OF CIVILIZATION 77 


“A chance? Well, who knows? I may 
have to, my dear!” 

They had dinner in a restaurant famous even 
beyond the Caucasus. Underneath the win- 
dows sang the cascaded Kura. Innumerable 
tapers in silver holders threw a mellow light 
over the motley company that sat around the 
tables — swarthy Asian potentates in enormous 
silken trousers and jewel-studded turbans; 
merchants from the looms of Samarkand and 
the pearleries of Borasjin; slender-hipped 
Cossack officers in uniforms that fitted like 
skin, with double rows of cartridge cases 
sewed across their chests; stalwart Georgians 
in their long white coats ; diplomats in evening 
dress ; European dealers in curios and precious 
stones. And always above the clatter of a half- 
score of languages sounded the elemental 
tongue of the river as it dashed over its rocky 
ledges. 

Savidge, his eyes on his wife’s sparkling 
face, felt his spirits rising to the infection of 
her interest in the kaleidoscooic scene. He 


78 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


pointed out to her a figure or two with a pic- 
turesque record in Oriental politics: a lady 
famous for her connection with the campaign 
of Salared-Dowleh; a fighting missionary 
from beyond the desert of Kara-Kum; a 
leather-faced American that had made ten 
millions over night in the oil fields of Baku. 

“ Sooner or later they all gravitate here — 
the big and the little ones that live by their 
wits and their audacity,” he said. “ Persia is 
the honey-pot that attracts them, and this cor- 
ner of Russia seems to breed adventurers. 
See that old fellow in evening dress and a tur- 
ban, the one bullying the waiter? That’s the 
Shah’s chief — ” 

He stopped short, arrested by an expression 
of startled surprise on Judy’s face. She was 
staring beyond him to the entrance of the cafe. 
Without a break in the conversation his eyes 
followed hers. A big Cossack in gray and 
silver, with a little mustache, had just saun- 
tered in. 


OUTPOST OF CIVILIZATION 79 


“Yes,” Savidge’s level voice went on; 
“ that’s Wolkonsky. I must teach you not to 
make your eyes as big as millstones when 
you’re surprised, Judy. Have another 
cream-tart?” 

“But, aren’t you astonished?” 

“No, not even surprised. I had a feeling 
he’d turn up today or tomorrow. You see, 
we came the longest way around.” 

“ Yes, but how did he know you ’d left New 
York? Does he know we’re going to Te — ” 

“ Ssh! No names! The waiter at the table 
behind you is one of Wolkonsky’s men — the 
whole frontier is honeycombed with ’em. 
Down here you must never count on their not 
understanding English. Wolkonsky himself 
speaks half a dozen languages and I don’t 
know how many dialects. He’s a remarkable 
chap with a great record in the Secret Service. 
I ’ve heard he ’s an aristocrat, in the service for 
love of the game. They say he’s never been 
known to break his word; and his record as 


8o 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


far as women are concerned is equally clean. 
It’s a satisfaction to pit yourself against a man 
like that; it gives some class to the fight!” 

Judy looked across the table at the live glow 
in his eyes, and from him to the big Cossack 
beginning a leisurely dinner at a distant table. 
She felt a little thrill of satisfaction and a stir- 
ring of her blood. It seemed as if she were 
in the middle of the world and around her 
circled the color and light from which all her 
gray life she had manufactured her dreams. 
Savidge pushed back his coffee-cup. 

“ Shall we go, Judy? I think tonight, if you 
like, I ’ll give you a little lesson in the game.” 


CHAPTER V 


THE FIRST TRICK 

U NDER the lights of his wife’s room 
Savidge drew a writing table. Then 
he lowered the blinds, locked the door, 
and spread upon the table a map of Persia 
and a sheet of draughtsman’s paper. 

Judy leaned her head against the back of 
the easy chair he had placed for her at the 
other side of the table and watched him as he 
began to draw with swift, deft strokes a curi- 
ous little map. This was a new light on her 
husband’s accomplishments. She had never 
thought of his strong, brown hands as posses- 
sing so delicate a skill. Greatly interested she 
watched the map grow under his pencil — an 
irregular parallelogram inclosing a number of 
blocks and dotted lines. Over some of these 
he wrote Great Staircase, Hall of One Hun- 
81 


82 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


dred Columns, Palace of Xerxes, Mound, Cis- 
tern. As he worked he talked. 

“Do you remember, Judy, my telling you 
about a lost city down there in Persia ?” 

She nodded. “Where the lion and the liz- 
ard are keeping watch? ” 

“Exactly. Now study this drawing. It’s 
a map of Persepolis, a lost city because no one 
knows its name or history, and every year the 
sand is sweeping deeper over it. The natives 
shun it and travelers don’t know about it, so 
it’s an ideal place for my purpose. When I 
went down there first to make my investiga- 
tions into the railroad game in Persia I went 
as an archaeologist, and naturally in the 
course of time I struck Persepolis. I knew at 
once if need ever arose of a good hiding place 
this was the spot. And it did arise, all right! 
After awhile they got suspicious of me even 
as an archaeologist. For six or seven years I 
burrowed around down there, from Baku to 
the Gulf and over into India, until Russia and 
Germany and England got onto the fact that 


THE FIRST TRICK 


83 


I traveled rather too far afield for an archae- 
ologist. But in the meantime I ’d sized up the 
trade of Persia, figured on the best way to link 
up with the Indian lines, got next to the atti- 
tude of Oriental diplomacy, and made the 
most interesting set of survey maps you ever 
saw. It took me eight years to get them; but 
it is all there — the best route for a trans- 
Persian railroad any of them have figured out 
yet! See!” 

He spread out a map of Southern Europe. 
“ From here to here it will catch the trade of 
the Gulf. It will replace the great caravan 
routes and cut off five days between London 
and Bombay. And it^will tap a gold mine for 
the men that build it. It will be a world- 
famous trunk line some day, and not one of 
them have figured on that route. I got it all 
on my maps, down to the last spike. But when 
I tried to get out of the country and back to 
the States with the plans, I saw I couldn’t do 
it. Russia wanted those survey maps too badly. 
Twice a caravanserai I was in was raided — 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


that was when I saw Wolkonsky first. And 
when I tried to get out through India I was 
held up near the frontier and only a lucky fluke 
saved my maps. Then I doubled back to Per- 
sepolis, and I cached those maps in the 
nicest little safety-deposit vault in all Persia.” 

He leaned back in his chair with a reminis- 
cent smile. Judy’s eager eyes were fixed on his 
face. “Those maps mean a lot to me,” he 
went on. “Ten years of work, to say nothing 
of my future. Of course, they’re in my 
head. I could duplicate them roughly; but 
that is n’t the point. No one else must get hold 
of them. With those plans in their hands 
Russia or Germany or England would have 
the advantage of knowing how many trumps 
we hold. Russia has known for a long time 
that there is a project on foot for an Amer- 
ican line across Persia; but she doesn’t know 
quite where the lightning will strike. It means 
a good deal to her to know, do you see?” 

“ But if you are the only one that knows the 


THE FIRST TRICK 


85 


location of the plans, they’re safe, aren’t 
they?” 

“ Absolutely. But unfortunately they can’t 
stay there indefinitely. Before the second day 
of June they’ve got to be in Teheran. For 
this is where the game comes in : The Shah 
has been for a long time secretly receiving 
bids for the big line, playing off both ends 
against the middle, as usual. But, six months 
ago, Russia (with England amiably encourag- 
ing her) forced the Persian National Council 
to set a time limit for bids and for completing 
the road. Do you see Russia’s game? The 
time limit is all to her advantage, for she’s on 
the spot and she’s had years the start of us in 
her knowledge of conditions. Besides, she’s 
figuring on delays due to accidents. Accidents 
happen frequently to interloping foreigners 
over here!” 

Judy made a sound of incredulous amaze- 
ment. “Do you mean to say they wouldn’t 
scruple to — to — ” 


86 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


“ My dear J udy, Russia has got the cleverest 
diplomats in the world! She’s playing this 
game for tremendous stakes — the capture of 
India and the ultimate control of the East — 
and her diplomats are not letting a little mat- 
ter of ethics stand in their way. They’ve 
thimble-rigged Turkey, shifted the cut on Ger- 
many, and run in a cold deck on England. Do 
you think they’d hesitate to turn a trump from 
the bottom to win this trick? No, no. Russia 
means to build the first trans-Persian line. 
She’ll use every means in her power to learn 
the amount of our bid, and then outbid us. 
She’ll steal our plans if she can and then use 
them if they suit her. And, above everything, 
she’ll prevent my getting to Teheran on time, 
if possible.” 

“ You must be in Teheran before the second 
day of June?” 

“Yes. There’s just time enough to do it, 
for I must go first to Persepolis for the maps, 
that’s three hundred miles out of my way, and 
then back up to Teheran. That’s why there 


THE FIRST TRICK 


87 


must be no considerable delay at this end, do 
you see?” 

She looked up at him as he stood absent- 
mindedly staring down at the map, and saw 
the lines deepen in his face. “Then you think 
there is going to be a delay?” 

“ I don’t think so much as feel it. I could n’t 
tell you why exactly. I suppose it’s a little 
like the sense an animal has of danger: comes 
from living in the open most of my life, I 
guess. When I saw Wolkonsky in the restau- 
rant tonight it wasn’t so much a surprise as a 
confirmation. I can’t foresee his next move, 
but I can be ready to meet any one of the half 
dozen moves I figure out he’ll make. That’s 
why I think you ’d better know the exact loca- 
tion of the plans. Then, if they should hold 
me up here, — ” 

He dropped into the chair opposite her and 
studied the map with abstracted eyes. “ I be- 
lieve you could do it,” he went on, half to 
himself, “with Hassan to help you and this 
map I ’ve drawn to guide you. If there was 


88 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


need of it, Gholam Rezah and his men would 
help. From Tabriz it’s safe enough by cara- 
van. At Isfahan you’d branch off — ” 

“ Yes,” she prompted him, eagerly, as he fell 
silent. “ At Isfahan I ’d branch off. How far 
is it from there to Persepolis?” 

With a start he sat up and looked at her. 
She was leaning forward, her chin in her 
palms, her eyes intent and very bright. In the 
little white-and-silver gown, with the pink rose 
on her breast, she seemed to him all at once 
disconcertingly feminine, the most beautiful 
woman he had ever seen. 

“ I don’t know what I ’m thinking about,” he 
said, brusquely, “ to drag you into this. I want 
you to be happy and free to write your stories.” 

“ Stories ! Are n’t you offering me a chance 
at a real one? Oh, I don’t want to be treated 
like a doll! I want to be in the game. If you 
need me I want you to use me. Whatever you 
tell me to do, I shall do it. If they hold you 
up here I ’ll go on. I ’m not afraid.” 

“ By Jove! I believe you’d do it.” His eyes 


THE FIRST TRICK 


89 


glowed as he looked at her. “And get away 
with it, too!” he added. 

She blushed for pleasure. “Then teach me 
everything! I must know the map of your lost 
city by heart, and the cipher.” 

He laughed and folded the map away in his 
pocket. “You can’t begin at midnight, my 
dear. Tomorrow we’ll have another session. 
Go to bed now, and don’t lose sleep over what 
I ’ve told you, will you?” 

“ But wait, there is something I don’t quite 
understand. Why should you care if they do 
hold you up on the frontier? When they find 
you haven’t the survey maps they will let you 
go, won’t they?” 

He smiled grimly. “That is exactly the 
point. Wolkonsky isn’t after the survey maps 
just now. It’s because of another little matter 
he’s following me. You see, I’m carrying 
sealed papers for the Persian Government 
from the Eastern Securities Company, which 
is French for the heavy end of Wall Street! 
They ’re the bids for the big line. They would 


9 ° 


THE BEARS CLAWS 


make interesting reading for Russia, and it is 
these papers Wolkonsky is after. I had fig- 
ured on getting across the frontier ahead of 
him; but now, well, something tells me it 
won’t be easy.” 

“But he wouldn’t suspect me!” she sug- 
gested. “ Could n’t I carry them, some way? ” 

He shook his head. “ I ’m carrying them in 
a safe place, Judy. You ’re not to bother your- 
self about those papers.” 

“Then I’m not to be a partner in every- 
thing?” she said, wistfully. 

He took her hand and smiled down at her 
gravely. “You’ll never know what a help 
it is to have someone to talk things out to. I ’ve 
been alone so long over here in this shifty coun- 
try.” He fell silent and stood looking at her 
hand. Although it was small and white, it 
possessed supple strength. It seemed to him 
that the hand and her round white arm had a 
subtle fragrance of their own. A troubled 
cloud came over his eyes. 

“ I wonder what right I had to bring you 


THE FIRST TRICK 


9i 


into this game,” he said, as if he thought aloud. 
“ Over there in America I only figured on the 
freedom and adventure I could give you; but 
here — ” 

He broke off short and dropped her hand. 
For it had come to him with a pang that he 
had not figured on her growing so precious to 
him that the very thought of danger for her 
gripped his heart and weakened his muscles. 
He turned away abruptly. 

“Get to sleep, and in the morning we’ll 
have a riding lesson,” he said. 

But after he had gone she remained awake 
for a long time, lying in bed staring at a pale 
square of light that was reflecting on the ceil- 
ing from a lamp in the courtyard below. She 
was too excited to sleep. Her thoughts seemed 
to form three strata in her consciousness: on 
top floated fragments of stories, evanescent 
and elusive; below these her mind went over 
and over the things Savidge had told her that 
evening; and deep down underneath these 
thoughts something sang in her heart. 


92 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


During the next few days while they waited 
in Tiflis until arrangements could be com- 
pleted for their journey by caravan and post- 
carriage south through the land of the Lion 
and the Sun, Judy soaked in innumerable new 
impressions and reveled in the color and detail 
of this city on the most picturesque frontier in 
the world. Each day after the early morning 
riding-lesson in the public gardens along the 
Kura, she wandered with Savidge or Hassan 
through the bazaars or through the ancient 
part of the city. 

The Oriental quarter claimed her and she 
never tired of elbowing her way through its 
narrow, stinking streets. About her were 
strange figures — Armenian money-changers 
in shiny broadcloth; handsome Georgians, 
swaggering along in their long white tcherkas 
and caps of snowy lambskin; squat narrow- 
eyed Tartars, in queer, outspreading pleated 
skirts and huge mushroom-shaped headgear, 
their flat faces the color of old brass; sallow, 
scowling Persians; natives of Daghestan 


THE FIRST TRICK 


93 


gaudy with weapons; cringing Jews in fur- 
edged caps and long gray kjalats girdled at 
the waist with the prescribed rope; women of 
the Orient far more concerned in keeping their 
faces covered than their persons; Russian 
soldiers handsomely uniformed; mud-bespat- 
tered Cossacks; and types from all the wild 
and ragged tribes of the Caucasus. 

Now and then a camel, its disdainful head 
held high, came rocketting down some narrow 
street, crowding high and low against the walls 
of the shops. Judy only laughed when Sav- 
idge commanded her to keep behind him. She 
was like a child reckless amidst the excitement 
of a county fair. She was interested in every- 
thing — in the Russian and Armenian shops, in 
the great ill-built houses with their hanging 
balconies of painted and carved wood that are 
neither Russian nor Persian, behind the lattice 
work of which the painted ladies of the Orient 
practice their ancient profession. 

Of the bazaars she could never get enough. 
Day after day she revisited them to stand in 


94 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


front of the diminutive shops, where Persian 
merchants, squatting on brick ledges or lolling 
on cushions, pull lazily at their bubbling 
water-pipes. Among a thousand and one odd- 
ments from the four corners of the East she 
wandered delightedly. She stroked wonderful 
fabrics, massive with silver and gold, gloated 
over heaps of diamonds and rubies, fingered 
cobwebby veils from Bokhara, furs from 
Astrakhan, water jugs studded with turquoises, 
and coveted bangles of raw amber and hair- 
pins of green jade. She laughed at an almost 
nude baker that slapped big sheets of leathery 
dough against a hive-shaped oven, for all the 
world as if he were fighting off a swarm of 
bees; and lingered fascinated before booths 
where craftsmen inlaid helmets, shields, and 
breastplates with silver and gold, and brawny 
armorers damaskeened gun-barrels and cres- 
cent-shaped swords. 

Thus the days were crowded; and at night, 
after dinner, she went over and over the map 
of the lost city; she learned the cipher Savidge 


THE FIRST TRICK 


95 


used, the cipher with her name as its key-word, 
and more about the map of Persia than most 
Europeans ever know. 

And when, two days later, she sat in the rail- 
way station with their luggage piled about 
her, it came to Judy that here, at last, the game 
began. They were to go by rail to Akstafa, 
from which point the caravans start for the 
interior. Abdallah ibh Hassan had gone on 
ahead to arrange for horses; and there re- 
mained only a short railway journey between 
them and the threshold of the real East. All 
about her rose the usual Asiatic clamor, the 
desperate chaffering at the ticket-window, the 
interminable conversations of families, who, 
after the manner of the East, had arrived at 
dawn to catch an afternoon train. 

Across the station Savidge was turning away 
from the ticket-window. She saw him glance 
twice at his watch, a thing so unusual with 
Savidge, who always seemed to catch his trains 
by some sort of unhurried intuition, that it 
brought her to attention as sharply as if he had 


9 6 


THE BEAR’S CLARES 


spoken. For an instant she lost sight of him in 
the crowd; then his voice sounded at her 
elbow. 

“How’s your nerve, Judy?” 

When she looked up at him for an explana- 
tion he was leaning against a pillar, a cigar in 
his fingers, and his eyes fastened on a distant 
corner of the station as if he meditated on a 
cobweb in the vaulted roof. “ I seem to feel,” 
he said, serenely, “ that we ’re about to have an 
afternoon call from our ubiquitous friend 
Wolkonsky.” 

At the name it seemed to Judy that every 
nerve in her body became like a fiddle string 
tuned a shade higher than concert pitch. She 
stood up beside him, and then she could see 
what he had seen — the tall Cossack, with his 
little black moustache and the insolent carriage 
of his shoulders, coming across the platform; 
behind him three officials in uniform; and fol- 
lowing them, with his white teeth bared in his 
black face, the huge lackey that had brushed 
against her the first day in the bazaar. 


THE FIRST TRICK 


97 


She nodded, moistening her lips. “What 
will they do to you? ” 

“ Hold me on a trumped up charge.” 

“How long?” 

“I don’t know. If it’s too long you must 
get those survey-maps, you know how we 
planned it, s-s-sh! Remember, he understands 
English.” 

The official party was half way across the 
station. Savidge lifted his hands, cupped as 
if to shield the flame of a match, and she saw 
that he was writing on a piece of paper. Wol- 
konsky halted in front of them. 

“Have I the honor to address Mr. John 
Savidge?” he asked, politely. Savidge nod- 
ded, and the Russian drew a folded official 
paper from his pocket. 

“ I am sorry,” he said, “ but I have an order 
for your arrest.” 

Savidge shrugged his shoulders and gazed 
at the roof. “What is the charge?” 

“Assault on the body-servant of his excel- 
lency the Magistrate of Tiflis.” 


9 8 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


“That will do as well as any other.” The 
American smiled ironically and turned to 
Judy. As he did so a sudden puff of wind 
blew back his coat and revealed a pistol holster 
at his right hip. 

Wolkonsky pointed at the pistol. “ I ’m 
sorry,” he said, again; “but for a foreigner to 
carry arms is strictly against the law of the 
city.” 

Savidge unbuckled the belt and handed it 
over without a word. Then the greatest man 
in the service did something that caused the 
men of his command to gape with astonish- 
ment. He stood erect and gave his prisoner 
the military salute. 

“ It’s all in the day’s work, Mr. Savidge, as 
you Americans say. If there is anything I can 
do for you, personally — ” 

He glanced for an instant at Judy, and Sav- 
idge said : “ Thanks. I should like you to see 
my wife to the train.” 

For a fraction of a second Wolkonsky stared 
as if surprised, then he assured them with po- 



“You can give me back the gun in Teheran,” said 

Savidge 











‘ 

1 








































. 


s. 

. i- 





THE FIRST TRICK 


99 


liteness it would afford him great pleasure to 
be of assistance to madame. 

“ Thanks!” said Savidge again, dryly. He 
looked at the pistol holster in the Russian’s 
hand. “There’s something else, if you don’t 
mind — that gun. I think a great deal of it. 
I ’ve toted it night and day for ten years and 
we ’ve been through some tight places together. 
I ’d hate awfully to have it confiscated or lost. 
Will you keep it for me till — till this matter 
is settled?” 

Wolkonsky smiled good humoredly. “As- 
suredly! But unfortunately I may not be here 
when this affair is — settled.” His smile took 
on a new shade of meaning. “ I leave tomor- 
row morning for Teheran — on official 
business.” 

“ I see,” returned Savidge thoughtfully. 
Then, with an odd smile, he met the Russian’s 
eyes squarely. “I, too, am going to Teheran 
— on official business. You can give me back 
the gun in Teheran — on the first day of 
June.” 


IOO 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


The Russian bowed again with a gleam in 
his eyes. “I shall be most happy to do you 
the service. In Teheran, then — on the first 
day of June, I shall return your gun. My 
address — ” 

He offered a card with an urbane and 
mocking politeness. Savidge accepted it with 
a politeness equally imperturbable. To Judy, 
with her heart throbbing in her throat for ter- 
ror, they were two unreal figures in an unreal 
setting. She searched Savidge’s imperturbable 
mask for some hint as to the part he intended 
her to play. As the train came in and the 
babel around her increased wildly, her knees 
began to weaken in a sickening fashion. She 
could have thrown herself upon her husband 
and begged him to keep her with him. She 
knew for the first time the fear that can sink 
the heart amidst alien surroundings and 
strange tongues. 

But she stood erect, her head up, her eyes 
fixed on Savidge’s face, waiting for her cue 
in the curious little drama. It came when 


THE FIRST TRICK 


IOI 


Savidge turned towards her and she felt in 
the hand he gave her a folded paper pressed 
against her palm. 

“Good-by, Judy, take care of yourself,’’ he 
said, in a very good imitation of the tone of a 
husband bidding his wife good-by until the 
week-end. The cool voice braced and steadied 
her instantly. Wolkonsky retreated a step 
courteously, although Judy knew his eyes 
were never off them. 

“ You ’ll be a good soldier? ” Savidge low- 
ered his voice. 

“ I ’ll try,” she answered, simply. She felt 
her brain clear and her knees grow steady. 
Then Wolkonsky offered her his arm; one of 
his men took charge of her luggage; the other 
two walked on either side of Savidge; and 
thus she was escorted to the door of a first- 
class compartment. When they had put her 
bundle of rugs and other belongings on the 
seat of the empty compartment, she turned to 
look at Savidge, who stood between the two 
officials, a grim smile on his face. Down the 


102 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


platform the guards were slamming to the 
doors of other carriages. At the sound she felt 
a swift and poignant stab of terror for him, of 
tenderness, and of regret for something she 
had left unsaid. 

She leaned a little farther out, her eyes enor- 
mous and very dark. The train jarred a little 
and a guard ran toward her door. 

“ Good-by — good-by, J ohn — dear ! ” she 
whispered. 

The next instant a very much astonished offi- 
cial escort found itself pushed aside, the guard 
collided with a flying figure, and John Savidge 
on the running board of the carriage had 
caught his wife in his arms and kissed her 
good-by. 


CHAPTER VI 

A TRAMP ROYAL 

L ATE in the afternoon the train crawled 
into Akstafa, a collection of mud- 
houses, a great caravansary, a railroad 
siding, and an abominable odor that is a mat- 
ter of civic pride on the part of its citizenry. 
Before the train had come to a standstill Ab- 
dallah ibh Hassan stood at the door of Judy’s 
compartment. To Judy the sight of him was 
like a face from home. She could have wept 
with relief and gratitude when he made his 
comforting, efficient bow in the doorway. His 
keen glance swept the compartment as if in 
search of his master, and Judy beckoned him 
in out of the confusion of the platform. 

“ He is arrested, Hassan,” she whispered. 
“ But you and I are to go on to Isfahan. We 
shall wait there a fortnight. If they detain 

103 


104 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


him longer, we’ll have to go on to that city 
you know of. There is word for you.” 

She handed him a fragment of paper torn 
from the bottom of the note Savidge had 
scrawled for her as he waited for Wolkonsky 
to come up to them in the Tiflis station. It 
contained half a dozen words in Arabic. Has- 
san’s sombre black eyes lightened and glowed 
as if the reading of those words kindled a 
sudden flame behind them. Then he thrust the 
bit of paper inside his burnous, and bowed 
ceremoniously, touching with his forehead her 
knees. 

“ I am in the Memsahib’s service,” he said. 

Judy felt touched and a little embarrassed 
by the bending of this tall, deep-eyed Arab 
before her. “ Thank you, Hassan,” she said, 
with a catch in her voice. “You and I will 
have to help the Sahib now.” 

She went at once to the station to inquire 
for a telegram; for in the note he had pressed 
into her hand Savidge had written : 

“Go on to Isfahan by caravan as planned. Will 
overtake you if possible. Ask for a wire at Akstafa.” 


A TRAMP ROYAL 


105 


The train had disgorged a motley crowd of 
passengers, all bound for one of the outgoing 
caravans, soldiers, merchants, traders and their 
chattering women-folk, and had been met by 
half of Akstafa. Judy’s pulse quickened as 
there came to her ears the dulled boom of 
camel-bells and the shrill “Illah!” of donkey 
drivers. All the world seemed about to go 
a-journeying. In spite of her difficulties, her 
spirits soared. At the door of the station, turn- 
ing to smile at a tiny Arab boy in a fez and 
little else, she was suddenly arrested where 
she stood by the sound of a voice. 

It came from within the station — a rich and 
unforgetable voice that spoke American with 
an unmistakable American twang. Judy’s 
heart leaped to its nasal music. 

“ Watch closely, benighted child,” the bland 
voice was saying. “ See! I place this piece of 
money in my left hand. Sabe? ” 

Judy looked in at the door. In the middle 
of the empty room stood a solidly built man 
with a head as large and round as a pumpkin. 


io 6 


THE BEARS CLAWS 


A shock of sandy hair curled over the collar 
of his flannel shirt, his coat was off, and his 
sleeves were rolled above the elbows. Judy’s 
first glance took in the details of the arms, 
which were long, slender, and delicately 
moulded, and the hands, soft, white, and 
supple. The tapering nails of the little finger 
were fully half an inch long. In front of this 
remarkable figure the native station-master 
stood solemnly watching. 

“Now! Eeny, meeny, miny, mo! One, two, 
three, out goes she! I open the fingers of the 
left hand, and — the ruble is gone. Gone! you 
mud-headed son of a she-ass! Are you on?” 

“I am a Meshadi of Adarbaijan, and an 
honest man!” protested the station-master. 
“The ruble was in the hand of the Presence. 
That is truth. I swear it on the Tail of the 
Sacred Lion.” 

The round, clean-shaven face confronting 
the station-agent wrinkled humorously and the 
gray eyes twinkled as he stretched forth his 


A TRAMP ROYAL 


107 


arm and plucked the silver ruble from the 
Persian’s beard. 

“ I ’ll do that again,” he said, suavely. 
Slowly and deliberately he placed the coin on 
the flat palm of his left hand. The station- 
agent’s eyes followed every movement as in- 
tently as a cat stalking a field-mouse. Judy 
also craned her neck, fascinated by the supple 
hand. 

“ Watch closely, son of infamy, and do 
poojah to your gods ! ” One by one the fingers 
closed pliantly over the silver piece. 

“The ruble is in that hand!” The station- 
master pointed. “ May I be the son of a burnt 
father if it be not as I have said!” 

Judy did not understand this ; but she under- 
stood with amusement what followed. The 
American raised his right hand and snapped 
his fingers thrice. “Hie — haec — hoc!” he 
intoned. “Abracadabra! Holus-bolus! Gee- 
whiz ! Christopher Columbus ! ” 

One by one the fingers opened, like petals. 


io8 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


The station-agent’s eyes boogied out of his 
head, and Judy gave a little gasp of astonish- 
ment. The ruble had vanished. 

“Are you on?” asked the suave voice. 
“Sabe?” 

“ It is the work of devils,” murmured the 
Persian. “A blight shall fall upon my house 
and my daughters shall die unwed! ” 

Judy gave a ripple of irrepressible laugh- 
ter. At the sound the American whirled. 
“Well, I’ll be hornswoggled! ” he cried, star- 
ing as if by some wonderful sleight of the gods 
of magic she had sprung into being on that 
hard mud floor as a rose-tree grows and un- 
folds before the eyes at the command of a 
wizard. Then he took a long breath and 
mopped his forehead. 

“Beg y’r pardon, but you had me going! 
Sure, thought I’d have to take the count!” 
The gray eyes beamed and the wide straight 
mouth was stretched into a grin. As a rule 
Judy did not like men that laughed, but this 
good nature was irresistible. 


A TRAMP ROYAL 


109 

“ I ’m from New York,” she said. 

“ Well, well, Little Old New York ! Who ’d 
a-thought of meeting any one from home in 
this benighted burg? And how are my old 
friends, Mr. and Mrs. Herald Square, and all 
the little Herald Squares?” 

Judy laughed. “ Do you live here? ” 

“ Me ! In this punk town ! I should say not ! 
It’s on the blink! Worse than Hoboken or 
Fort Wayne!” He reached into space and a 
card appeared at his finger tips. “ Allow 
me!” With an extravagant bow he handed 
the card to Judy. She took it rather gingerly, 
half expecting it would vanish the moment she 
touched it. The card was ornate. At one end 
was the picture of a magician in flowing robes 
and a conical cap, engaged in the lucrative 
profession of extracting gold and silver coins 
from the ambient atmosphere. In large type, 
with rubricated initial letters, was the inscrip- 
tion: “The Great Jaggard, the World’s Mas- 
ter Mage of Magic ! ” 

There was nothing in the appearance of Mr. 


I 10 


THE BEAR'S CLAWS 


Jaggard to justify the pomposity of his busi- 
ness card. Round of face, sleek of body, merry 
of eye, he looked anything but a man of 
mystery. 

“ I don’t know what a Mage is,” said Judy, 
“ but I ’m sure you don’t look like one ! ” 

The Great Jaggard laughed; and when he 
laughed the upper part of his face became 
pleated with wrinkles, through which his 
shrewd gray eyes twinkled for all the world 
like a wise old elephant’s. 

“Bull-con,” he explained, “plain, unvar- 
nished bull-con. But it gets the ginks ! ” Then 
in answer to the question marks in Judy’s 
eyes : “I’m Tom Jaggard, from nowhere-in- 
particular, and bound to God-knows-where.” 
He rubbed his smooth round chin reflectively. 
“ Y’ see, I ’m what might be called a citizen 
of the world. Haven’t been Home to stay in 
twenty years. Guess it’s in the blood — what 
they call the wanderlust.” 

A line of Kipling flashed into Judy’s mind. 


A TRAMP ROYAL 


1 1 1 


“I know! You’re a tramp royal!” 

“ Don’t just dope out the royal gag,” he 
returned, “but so far as the other part’s con- 
cerned, I’m the original son of rest. Any- 
thing I can do for you — interpreter, guide?” 

Judy shook her head smilingly, and crossed 
the room to inquire of the station-master con- 
cerning her telegram. She was told there was 
nothing for Mrs. John Savidge. Her heart 
went down like a plummet. 

“Are — are you sure?” she faltered. There 
was something about the station-master’s shifty 
eyes that made her mistrustful. Although he 
had just answered her in intelligible English, 
he now poured forth a glib speech in the ver- 
nacular. Judy looked despairingly at her 
fellow-countryman. Jaggard at once inter- 
preted: 

“ He says your Presence is an illumination 
to his eyes ; but there is no telegram, so help 
him Mike!” 

“lama Meshadi, and an honest man,” cried 


I 12 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


the station-agent, looking from one to the 
other. “ May a curse fall upon my house if 
what I have said be not the truth ! ” 

Judy would have turned away, dejected, but 
Jaggard said, under his breath: “ Wait!” 

She watched him screw his face into an 
expression as ferocious as it is possible for a 
round, placid face to assume; and her mind 
as she looked at that absurd face flashed back 
over seas to the dimly lighted stage of a thea- 
ter on which a ridiculous figure flitted to and 
fro to the swinging measures of an outlandish 
song. “That’s what he looks like — the Yama- 
Yama man! ” she thought. 

Then, startled, she shrank back against the 
wall. For in the most amazing mixture of 
Coney Island American and the high-flown 
phrases of the vernacular, the Great Jaggard 
was roaring out a curse upon the house of the 
station-agent, and upon all that therein was. 
Incidentally he added that the station-master 
was a liar and the offspring of liars. 

The face of the Persian turned the color of 


A TRAMP ROYAL 


111 

ashes. “The Excellency is Sihrbaz Kabir [a 
great magician] ! Thrice have I journeyed to 
Meshed; thrice have I prayed at the shrine of 
Iman Riza; I am a Shi’ate and an honest — ” 

Jaggard pointed a potent forefinger at the 
cringing man. “ Hand over that message, my 
fuzzy friend!” 

The black eyes of the Persian glittered nerv- 
ously. “May my eyes be a forfeit! May a 
curse fall upon my house. May my wife’s 
breasts wither up and my daughters go unwed 
to the grave, if I have deceived the Excel- 
lency!” 

All at once Jaggard seemed to swell and 
tower over the protesting native. “A curse, 
then, upon thy house!” he thundered. “I, 
too, have journeyed to Meshed and to Mecca 
and to El Medinah, and my magic is greater 
than thy gods. Thy eyes shall be forfeit, for 
thou hast lied to me. A curse shall fall upon 
thee and thine, for thou hast lied to me twice. 
Thy daughters shall go unwed to the grave, 
for thou hast lied to me thrice!” 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


114 

The awful thoroughness of the curse 
brought the station-agent sprawling at Jag- 
gard’s feet. Judy, shocked, was about to pro- 
test in the man’s behalf, when the Great Jag- 
gard turned his wrinkled face upon her and, 
solemnly winking one eye, remarked : “Ain’t 
I a wiz?” 

“He’s lying,” he added, calmly, and lifted 
the man to his feet with no more effort than 
a child would make in lifting a doll. There 
was plainly strength in those rounded arms 
and soft white hands. 

“Look at me! Look me straight in the 
eyes!” He made some passes in front of the 
scowling face. The native stood as one in a 
trance; his forehead was beaded with sweat; 
his breathing was short and jerky; and the 
pupils of his eyes dilated. 

“Behold, oh, foolish one, a magic greater 
than thy gods can do,” cooed Jaggard. He 
made a stroking motion in front of the blank 
face. A shiver ran through the body of the 
native. 


A TRAMP ROYAL 


”5 


“Tell me, Meshadi, the words that came 
down from the sky!” Jaggard commanded. 

“The words . . . the words . . The 
native’s flat voice seemed to come from the 
back of his head. 

“ ‘ Will forward consignment . . prompt- 
ed Jaggard. 

“ ‘ Will forward consignment . . repeated 
the voice. 

“‘Of Premier phonographs . . 

“‘Of Premier phonographs . . ” 

“‘To Tabriz.’” 

“‘To Tabriz,’” droned the voice. 

Jaggard snapped his fingers in the man’s 
waxy face. The color tided back; the eyes 
resumed their natural expression, and the rigid 
lines of the face relaxed. “ Did I not tell thee 
thou wast a liar?” purred Jaggard. “The 
words were, ‘Will forward consignment of 
Premier phonographs to Tabriz.’ Is it not so? 
Am I not greater than thy gods, Meshadi?” 

“It is the work of devils!” muttered the 
station-agent. “ But it is even as the Excel- 


ii 6 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


lency says! ” He trotted into the room where 
the telegraph instruments clicked monoto- 
nously, and forthwith returned with a tele- 
graph blank. Judy took it and read: 

Will forward consignment Premier phonographs 
Tabriz. (Signed) John Savidge. 

It was a message in the code she and Sav- 
idge had agreed upon. There could be no 
doubt of its authenticity; for interpreted it 
read : “ See Gholam Rezah in T abriz.” And 
of Gholam Rezah she had heard much. 

She turned a bewildered face to Jaggard. 
“ It is my telegram, all right. But how did 
you get it? And why should the station-agent 
have kept it back?” 

He shook his head. 

“ Remember you’re in the East, where nine 
times out of ten the things that happen are not 
understandable by the Westerner. I know 
nothing of this business, believe me; but I do 
know the East, and I advise you to remember 
the words of the wire, but forget that the 
native ever delivered it. That’ll make a friend 


A TRAMP ROYAL 


111 

of him, and throw off the scent whoever gave 
him the order to hold up your telegrams. See? ” 

Judy thought it over. “Perhaps you’re 
right. Tell him it’s all right, please.” 

Jaggard handed the blank to the station- 
agent, who seized it with hands that trembled 
with eagerness. “The Sahib is greater than 
many gods!” 

Jaggard waved him away with a gesture of 
droll complacency. He looked, indeed, not 
unlike some prosperous god, full-fed with 
adulation. “And because that is so,” he said, 
“ there shall be no curse upon thy house. Thou 
shalt wax prosperous, thy wife fat, thy daugh- 
ters shall wed and give birth to sons, and the 
Memsahib shall forget the words that came 
down from the sky.” 

The station-agent salaamed profoundly be- 
fore Judy, and made as if to prostrate himself 
at Jaggard’s feet. “I shall yet pray for the 
Excellency at the tomb of the Prophet,” he 
cried. • 

Outside, upon the station platform, Judy 


1 1 8 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


found herself walking along beside the Great 
Jaggard as if she had known him for years. 
He had the irresistible quality of taking things 
for granted that is said to be the perquisite of 
royalty. 

“How did you do it?” she said to him. 
“Was it hypnotism, or what? ” 

He laughed his great, hearty laugh. “ I 
couldn’t hypnotize a muley calf. Had him 
scared stiff ! That ’s all ! ” 

“Yes, but the message — that looked like 
magic!” 

“ Magic be blowed! That message came in 
over the wire just before you arrived. I was 
in the office, and I used to be a telegraph oper- 
ator in Marshalltown, Ioway, before I went 
on the stage!” 


CHAPTER VII 

A DAUGHTER OF THE VIKINGS 

A T the other end of the platform, Hassan 
was patiently waiting with the lug- 
gage. He looked at J udy’s escort with 
a frown of suspicion. 

“This is a countryman of mine, Hassan,” 
Judy explained. “ He is going with the cara- 
van to Isfahan.” 

Tom Jaggard took in the dubious welcome 
of Hassan’s expression with a speculative 
screwing up of his eyes. Then he said some- 
thing in the vernacular that instantly smoothed 
out the face of the tall Arab. 

“Allah Yakmah (God be with you)!” 
Hassan returned. “The great magician is 
known to me by word from the South. . . . 
We go to the caravanserai, Memsahib?” 

With Hassan striding ahead and Jaggard 

119 


120 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


guarding the rear, Judy was escorted through 
the narrow, twisting streets. This was the 
season of the year when trade was brisk be- 
tween the North and the South. Akstafa had 
all the life and color of a “boom” town, and 
also all its wickedness, with the difference that 
here it was entirely and naively in the accepted 
order. Traders and traffic-men that come in 
from their long journeys with dust-choked 
throats most naturally rinse them with wine in 
the Palaces of Delight, where also their pipes 
are filled with scented tobacco by dancing 
girls as lithe as the young bamboo, and their 
ears are delighted with the untranslatable love- 
songs of the East. 

The dusty, gray streets were brightened with 
splashes of raw color from the dress of Arme- 
nian women, or the burnouses, purple, blue, 
and blood-red, of Arabs. Frequently the dirty 
drab of some plastered wall would flame with 
the bright, coin-bedecked cotton dress of a 
dancing girl as she leaned in a doorway. And 
matching the violent colors were violent noises 


DAUGHTER OF THE VIKINGS in 


— the shrill cries of the drivers of yawing 
beasts, the shrieks of the hawkers of henna, 
the incessant clanging of camel-bells. 

Everywhere they turned, Jaggard seemed to 
be at home. Two old men playing a game of 
chess in a doorway looked up to exchange 
greetings with him; a nabob in white burnous 
and gold-embroidered waistcoat, whose tur- 
ban denoted a pilgrimage to Mecca accom- 
plished, saluted him as a brother. Dancing 
girls in a street where it would be unsafe for 
a European to walk alone gathered around 
him laughingly, filling the whole place with 
the noise of their clanking bangles and 
anklets, and refused to let him go until he had 
stuck pieces of silver to their foreheads. 
When he had overtaken her after one of these 
encounters, Judy looked at him smilingly: 

“ You seem to be pretty well known!” she 
remarked. 

“My middle name’s Popularitee!” he ad- 
mitted, unblushingly. “ Y’ see, I ’m not a bit 
particular where I show my little bag o’ tricks 


122 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


— in the streets, the bazaars, the dance-houses; 
and the benighted children think I ’m the real 
thing, the king-pin of esoteric science! Re- 
member that dancing girl back there, the tall, 
slim one that put her arm around my neck 
and whispered in my ear? When I was 
through here last she offered me a toman for 
a charm to cause the death of a faithless 
lover!” 

“How absurd! You didn’t give her one?” 

“Sure! And it worked beautifully, so she 
told me back there. Caught him with a rival 
one night and stuck the knife herself into his 
gizzard! But the dear child really believes it 
was the charm that did it. So, you see, I ’m 
the Big Noise down this way ! ” 

Judy shivered. “ It ’s horrible, and it ’s ridic- 
ulous, too ! ” 

“It’s a good graft,” he said, simply. 
“Human nature’s the same the world over: 
I made a mighty good living in New York one 
winter selling love philters ! Surest thing ever ! 
It’s easier to pull off over here, though. The 


DAUGHTER OF THE FIRINGS 123 


postal authorities ain’t so particular, and faith- 
less lovers just naturally don’t live long.” 

Judy gasped, but in spite of herself she 
smiled. Possibly if her life had been more 
sheltered and her training had not included 
six years on the mezzanine floor of a great 
hotel, she would have been shocked by Tom 
Jaggard and his philosophy of life. But too 
many men had come and gone through the 
doorway of the bronze cage for her to be very 
far wrong in her reading of a man’s charac- 
ter. From the first moment when she met the 
kindly, twinkling eyes of Jaggard, in the sta- 
tion, she had liked him. His calling appeared 
to be dubious and not too dignified; he was a 
charlatan with the jargon of a charlatan, but 
she had written letters for men of the most 
prosperous respectability in whom she instinct- 
ively felt less confidence. Underneath the 
tricks, the slang, and the naive conceit of the 
man, she was aware of the poise of an artist, 
of the man that has learned his craft so well 
that no one in the world can beat him at it. 


124 


THE BEAR'S CLAWS 


She had an odd feeling about him that in 
spite of appearances he was rather a big man. 
In the very nature of his wanderings he must 
have rubbed elbows with infamy and shaken 
hands with vice, but she noticed that the dan- 
cing girls, with all their merriment, offered 
him no familiarities ; the faces of the old men 
that spoke to him lighted admiringly; and 
even Hassan the Watchful treated him with 
grave consideration. 

“Do you know Persia well?” she asked, in 
the hope of learning something more about 
him. 

“Oh, so-so! The graft is good in the Eastf 
there ain’t many spots this side of Suez I 
haven’t struck one time or another. You see, 
I teach the heathen children tricks, advise ’em 
in matters of love and war, and read their 
unregenerate futures. I haven’t collected any 
callouses clipping coupons” — he looked hu- 
morously at his white hands, strong and incred- 
ibly supple — “but I’ve seen this old world 


DAUGHTER OF THE FIRINGS 125 


from Dan to Beersheba, an’ d’you know, I 
like her better every day ! ” 

“ For to admire an’ for to see, 

For to be’old this world so wide ; 

It never done no good to me, 

But I can’t drop it if I tried 1 ” 

Judy quoted. 

Jaggard looked around at her quickly. 
“The fellow that wrote that knew!” he said. 

In the great inner court of the caravanserai, 
littered with bales of cotton, bundles of car- 
pets, and bags of merchandise, a tumult of 
preparation for the night was on foot. In the 
middle of the court a ring of camels knelt 
mumbling and bubbling around a stack of 
hay; pack-mules, donkeys, and shag-haired 
Persian ponies munched grain from greasy 
blankets, and Shirazee stallions kicked at the 
caravan dogs prowling everywhere in search 
of food. In one corner men were cooking 
supper over dung-fires. The smoky flames 
struck upward on their bronzed faces, their 


126 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


beards dyed flaming crimson with henna, and 
their ragged, oily locks. The master of the 
caravanserai came to meet them, Orientally 
extravagant with his epithets of welcome, and 
Judy was piloted across the seething court, up a 
narrow stone stairway, and out upon an upper 
gallery. High up in one of the towers flanking 
the entrance to the caravanserai was a tiny room, 
not much more than a niche in the masonry. 
With a flourish of pride, the na’ib ushered her 
into this chamber of honor, the bala-khanah, 
only to be occupied by travelers whose way 
has been paved with silver in advance. There 
was neither door nor window, bed nor chair; 
but an urn-shaped hole in the center of the 
floor contained some smoldering embers. 

As usual with the setting of the sun, a cold 
wind had sprung up and it swooped in at the 
open archway until the na’ib strung a goat’s- 
hair rope and stretched a blanket across it. 
Then he bowed low. 

“ Khuda hafiz [God be mindful of you!] ” 
he said. But — “God’s curse upon all unbe- 


DAUGHTER OF THE VIKINGS 127 


lievers!” he growled in his beard as he groped 
his way down the stairs. 

Hassan lighted a primitive lamp, a wick of 
hemp in a bowl of castor oil, and spread a 
thick floor-cloth over the floor. In a corner 
he arranged Judy’s roll of bedding. A qualm 
of homesickness, loneliness, and something 
very like fear smote her at these preparations 
for the night. A babel of strange noises — 
voices, grunts, and squeals — came up from 
the courtyard below. 

“You will share my supper, won’t you?” 
she said to Jaggard. “ It’s all so strange. Of 
course, I’m not at all nervous, but it’s a little 
lonesome, not understanding what any of them 
are saying, isn’t it?” 

Jaggard smiled as if he understood. “ Sure, 
I ’d like to have supper with you. We’ll talk 
about the Only Town, eh?” 

While Hassan cooked supper over a fire of 
faggots in the stone gallery, they leaned on the 
railing and watched the scene below. Around 
three sides of the court were arched recesses 


128 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


in the wall. Before one of these a red and 
yellow blanket swung. 

“That is my suite de luxe,” Jaggard ex- 
plained. He went on to divert her with a 
droll exposition of the etiquette of the cara- 
vanserai, a hotel in which there are no rooms 
with bath, no haughty office force, no grasping 
bell-boys, no dining-rooms or cafe; where the 
guests provide their own beds, cook their own 
meals, and sleep where they choose or can — 
in the arched recesses, on the stairs, in the 
cloisters, or the bedunged court itself, accord- 
ing to their mental condition upon return- 
ing from an evening in Akstafa’s Palaces of 
Illusion. 

In their nostrils was the reek of smoke, the 
pungent odor of the camels, the scent of hay, 
of dust, of saddlery. 

“If someone should unbottle some of this 
smell under my nose in Kennebunkport, 
Maine, and I’d say ‘ Khuda hafiz!’ and jump 
out of the way of a camel before I’d think!” 
Jaggard said, wrinkling up his nose. 


DAUGHTER OF THE FIRINGS 129 


“ I like it! ” declared Judy. “ It is n’t a nice 
smell, but I can imagine it haunting you and 
bringing you back sooner or later. What is 
that man with the black beard, the one that 
sits on his heels over there against the wall?” 

“ Do you mean the cameleer with the yellow 
girdle?” 

“Yes. He’s asleep now.” 

“No, he isn’t asleep. No Arab ever sleeps 
that way. Why did you ask? ” 

“Why, I don’t know ...” Judy hesitated. 
“At the station I thought he followed me 
down the platform. He has sat there so long 
against that wall. Once I caught him staring 
up here at us.” 

“Well, I don’t know as I blame him,” said 
Jaggard, with cheerful audacity. “Umm-m! 
— that chicken of Hassan’s smells good!” 

To himself he thought: “Now, I wonder 
what she’s doing down here? She’s got a 
little private worry of her own. And she’s 
carrying something she’s deathly afraid of 
losing.” 


130 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


He watched her out of the corners of his 
shrewd eyes, for he was puzzled by this phe- 
nomenon of an American woman, young and 
good to look upon, traveling the caravan ways 
alone, with only an Arab servant to look after 
her. Outwardly he took her for granted in a 
genially offhand manner that hid a very lively 
curiosity. He knew something of John Sav- 
idge and his mission in Persia, as he knew 
something of very many hidden currents in the 
life of the awakening East. Judy had spoken 
of her husband as detained in Tiflis on busi- 
ness ; but Jaggard knew it must be very serious 
business that made it necessary for Mrs. John 
Savidge to be traveling alone to Isfahan. 

“ She’s all right,” he said to himself, “but 
sooner or later she’s going to need you, 
Tommy; and when she does you’ve got to 
be on the spot. She’s from Home, and God 
knows it’s been long and long since you talked 
with her like.” 

They ate their supper of chicken served on 
a mound of curried rice, and Jaggard told her 


DAUGHTER OF THE FIRINGS 13 1 


droll tales of his travels. Presently the noises 
of the manzil court almost ceased and even 
the wolfish caravan dogs grew quiet. Judy 
took one last look down into the court as she 
said good-night to Jaggard. A dozen fires 
flickered in the dark; around them lay hud- 
dled shapes of men, some already heavy with 
sleep, some pulling indolently at their water- 
pipes. 

“ You know where I bunk,” said Jaggard in 
his offhand fashion. “ Send Hassan for me if 
you need me.” 

She thanked him and assured him she should 
be all right with Hassan to look after her. 
But in spite of her pretended good spirits, she 
felt decidedly forlorn as she rolled up in her 
blankets in the bala-khanah. She went over 
and over the events of the day; and especially 
lived again that too-brief moment in the sta- 
tion at Tiflis, when there had been no time 
to say the things she had wanted to say. She 
thought of that last moment when her husband 
had kissed her. She felt again that kiss, burn- 


I3 2 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


ing and hungry — the kiss of a self-contained 
and lonely man, who lets his soul loose for an 
instant. 

“Oh, my dear!” she thought, “where are 
you now? What will they do to you? I wish, 
oh, I wish you were here! You’ve been so 
good to me, and I never let you know how 
much I really cared for you. And now it’s 
too late!” 

The stone floor became harder and harder; 
the honorable bala-khanah grew colder; and 
the heart of Judy shivered and was afraid. It 
became unbearable to lie there shivering and 
uneasy; and she got up, walked to the door- 
way, and lifted the curtain. Instantly a muffled 
figure started up from the stone floor of the 
gallery outside, and she realized that Hassan 
was on guard. When she expostulated with 
him for choosing so uncomfortable a sleeping 
place, he answered simply: 

“ It is the order of Savidge Sahib, Mem- 
sahib!” 

She went back to her blankets with a sense 


DAUGHTER OF THE FIRINGS 133 


of warmth and security in her heart. “ Adven- 
ture!” she thought, gayly. “This is what 
you’ve always wanted, and he may be here 
tomorrow!” 

All at once she was asleep. She slept like 
a child, until Hassan called her from the door- 
way. Morning streamed in around the edges 
of the blanket curtain; cheerful noises came 
up from the manzil court, and Hassan had 
achieved the crowning miracle of a basin of 
hot water. Later he served her a breakfast of 
hot tea and cold boiled eggs that she ate sit- 
ting on a bale of cotton. In the gray dawn 
everyone was getting ready for departure, 
roping great bales and packs to the baggage- 
beasts, cooking, eating, smoking, and making 
the greatest possible uproar. Yet even in the 
intervals of arguing vehemently or plying 
the lash, they were religiously polite to one 
another. 

“In the name of God, brother, throw me 
a rope!” shouted a camel driver, struggling 
with a pack. 


134 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


“ In the name of God, brother, here is the 
rope!” returned the other. 

The black-browed caravan guards appealed 
especially to Judy. With their daggers and 
long guns, they reminded her of her own whis- 
kerandoed pirates. She half shut her eyes and 
began to weave them into a story; but in the 
midst of it she found herself listening to a 
voice. It came from the cloisters behind her, 
a woman’s voice, speaking in the vernacular. 
She could not understand the words, but the 
voice itself had the quality of crystal, clear 
and cold, a most unoriental characteristic. She 
closed her eyes for an instant; and as she 
listened there passed before her inner gaze a 
vision of gaunt gray mountains, a sullen fjord, 
and snow lying steely purple in the twilight. 
Then a word dispelled the vision as a shot 
scatters a flock of birds. The voice had said 
“ Good-morning!” 

Judy turned and looked into a pair of eyes 
that had in them the glint of blue ice. The 
woman was tall and very straight, blonde and 


DAUGHTER OF THE VIKINGS 135 


big-boned. Her yellow hair was braided into 
thick ropes and twisted about her head like 
a coronet. She held in her hand a pith helmet, 
about which she was twisting a green veil. 
Over the helmet she looked at Judy and 
smiled, an impersonal smile like the sudden 
flicker of pale sunlight across a stretch of 
wintry water. 

“We are the only Europeans with the cara- 
van,” she said in chiseled English that had in 
it only the vaguest hint of a foreign inflection. 
“We shall be very glad of each other’s com- 
pany before we’ve gone far. It is the most 
monotonous traveling in the world.” 

Judy’s sea-green eyes opened wide with 
astonishment. It seemed a most amazing thing 
that another woman, speaking her own tongue, 
should have sprung up in this tumultuous cara- 
vanserai court. “Oh, you’ve been over the 
route before?” she exclaimed. 

“ Many times.” The voice was coldly mat- 
ter-of-fact. “I am Miss Arlundsen, Lina 
Arlundsen. I make the trip every two years, 


136 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


usually to Isfahan, sometimes as far south as 
Shiraz. I am the Oriental buyer for Rosen- 
thal, of Paris — you know their shop in the 
Rue de la Paix, perhaps? I must look after 
my luggage — I have only just come in by 
train,” she added, turning away. “ Au revoir! 
We shall doubtless be very well acquainted 
soon.’ 

Judy was still staring after her new acquaint- 
ance when Jaggard sauntered up. “ Good- 
morning. Who’s your friend?” he asked. 

“A daughter of the Vikings, I believe. 
She’s Miss Lina Arlundsen. Striking, isn’t 
she?” 

“ A peach ! ” he assented, cheerfully. “ Great 
hair, and say! she can sling the vernacular. 
Oh, good work! See that cameleer step 
’round!” 

Miss Arlundsen was directing the loading 
of her baggage-camel. The cameleer in the 
yellow girdle, with two assistants, was work- 
ing for her, with a sort of despairing haste, 
as a cameleer seldom works for anyone. And 


DAUGHTER OF THE VIKINGS 137 


away from the big, straight figure of the 
Oriental buyer for Rosenthal respectfully 
swerved the courtyard tangle of men and 
beasts. She stood calmly in the midst of the 
confusion, one gauntleted hand on her hip, her 
handsome shoulders well back, while not even 
a caravan dog dared to sniff at the heavy rid- 
ing boots under the short cross-saddle skirt of 
tweed. Her cool blue gaze met the eyes of 
Jaggard and returned again to the work in 
hand. 

“ I wonder,” said Jaggard, slowly, “ 1 won- 
der what’s her graft?” 

Judy laughed. “Have you ever heard of 
Rosenthal of the Rue de la Paix, in Paris?” 

“Sure! Biggest shop in the world; makes 
a specialty of curious junk from everywhere. 
Get you anything from a reindeer skin to a 
piece of carved teakwood from Java. Any- 
thing you want, if you Ve got the price, Rosen- 
thal will deliver the goods.” 

“I see! Well, Miss Arlundsen is a buyer 
for that firm. She makes the journey to Isfa- 


138 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


han or Shiraz once every two years. I ’m glad 
she ’s going. I like to meet out-of-the-ordinary 
people, don’t you?” 

“Sure!” he agreed, readily, “when they 
have hair and eyes like Lina there!” Then, 
under his breath, “But I wonder what’s her 
graft?” 


CHAPTER VIII 

CARAVANS OF THE DESERT 

T HE sun, shouldering above the huddled 
mountains, left a blotch of blood-red 
upon the stark blue of the snow-peaks, 
glinted on the arms of the caravan guard, and 
turned the crimson pennon of the leader into 
a moving flame. Like a huge caterpillar, the 
caravan crawled out of the town and across 
the yellow, rutty plain : first the swift-footed 
Bactrian camels, carrying merchants that 
swayed in their blankets and smoked the morn- 
ing pipe ; then the one-humped baggage beasts 
of Khorasan, chained in strings of eight and ten, 
mumbling and grunting under their six-hun- 
dred-pound loads; then the pilgrims, riding 
shaggy Persian ponies, and last the tiny don- 
keys, swaying under stupendous loads of pots 
and pans, guns and accoutrements, clanking 
139 


140 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


against their sides. Here and there a donkey 
jiggered along, bearing the wives of a mer- 
chant. They rode in wooden panniers strapped 
to the donkey’s sides, two and two, their dark 
eyes looking out over the yashmak, under the 
shadow of the pannier’s wooden hood. Judy 
pitied them profoundly as she rode by on her 
pony to her place in the cavalcade; and they 
in turn looked at her unveiled face with scorn 
and derision. Often before the journey was 
done she was to hear them chattering, chatter- 
ing, in their cramped cages; but never once 
did she see more of them than a brown, be- 
ringed hand, or their eyes above the eternal 
yashmak. 

The starting forth in the diamond-clear cold 
of the morning, with the clamor of attendant 
beggars, the barking of caravan dogs, the chat- 
tering of pilgrims, and the clank of accoutre- 
ments, stirred her blood as well as her imagi- 
nation. As she looked back over the long 
string of laden beasts, she felt suddenly the 
amazing contrast between her little, modern 


CARAVANS OF THE DESERT 141 


self and this old-world spectacle. They fol- 
lowed an age-worn trail that is older than 
any man can say. Since the world was young 
the caravans have made their way over this 
road that links together cities counting a 
thousand years as but a fraction in their his- 
tory. Over it Ghengis Khan rode at the head 
of his Mongol horde, andTimur theTartar led 
his barbarian host. Semiramis made the long 
journey in royal splendor; and it may be that 
down this winding course the Amazonian 
Tomyris rode when she planned her vengeance 
on Cyrus the King, under the same stars that 
still watch the caravans filing down from 
Transcaspia to the seas of spouting whales 
that lie to the south of the Province of the 
Sun. 

For nearly three weeks they followed the 
long trail; and the days slipped behind them 
like the procession of inscrutable figures 
carved in the everlasting stone of the tombs 
and palaces that accent the loneliness of the 
land. To Judy some of the days seemed to 


142 


THE BEARS CLAWS 


dwarf a century; others might have been as 
old as the sun-scoured land itself. There was 
little to disturb the monotony of the journey. 
As ancient as the trail itself is the routine of 
a caravan day. First the gay and noisy start; 
then, with the coming of the heat, the settling 
down to a drowsy hum of conversation, the 
complaining grunts of the camels, and the 
steady pad-padding of their feet. At midday 
the halt at a chapar-khanah, a hasty meal, and 
the long siesta. Then, when the afternoon 
grows a little cooler, the setting forth again 
for the last march of the day, silent under the 
heat, swinging on through the dusty hours 
until the walls of the next post-house break 
the horizon, and a long sigh of relief rises from 
the weary caravan. 

At dawn the desert glittered like diamonds; 
at noon the land lay warped and wrinkled 
under a blazing sun ; at eventide a cold wind 
sprang up and the hills, huddled on the hori- 
zon like backs of porpoises at sea, took on a 
hundred hues and colors. Under the light of 


CARAVANS OF THE DESERT 143 


sunset the rocks glittered like rubies and opals 
and amethysts. Day after day it was the same 
deliberate, patient procession across the yellow 
plain dotted with clumps of sagebrush and 
camel’s-foot, with long lines of cactus and aloe 
standing sawtoothed against the lapis-lazuli 
of the sky. Sometimes the caravan crawled 
along the bank of a salt lake shimmering like 
quicksilver ; sometimes it skirted a marsh where 
cranes stalked among the sedges and coots 
called to one another from the reeds. Again 
it zigzagged through a rich valley, the slopes 
of which were dotted with the black goat’s- 
hair tents of nomads. In front of the tents, 
tawny, naked children romped, while in the 
valley their elders guarded the camels and 
asses, the little gray cattle with humps on their 
shoulders, and the shag-haired ponies. 

Now and then they met a caravan on the 
road, the camels wabbling in single file, each 
camel fastened with a long cord and a ring 
in its nose to the saddle of the one ahead. More 
than once they encountered bands of wander- 


144 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


in g dervishes — wild-eyed smokers of hemp 
and bhang — their unkempt locks dyed with 
henna juice, their garments ragged and travel- 
stained. One afternoon the sky became sud- 
denly black with crows and carrion-birds. As 
the kites poised on motionless wings over the 
caravan, Judy noticed that the natives drew 
their blankets over their faces. She turned 
inquiring eyes on Jaggard, who rode beside 
her. 

“ A caravan of the dead is coming,” he said. 

J udy shivered. “ What do you mean ? ” 

“One of the nice little customs of this be- 
nighted country! Remember what our fuzzy 
friend, the station-agent at Akstafa, said about 
his being a Meshadi? He meant that he had 
made a pilgrimage to the holy city of Meshed ; 
and when he dies he expects his devoted wife 
to bundle his bones into a box and ship him 
by mule or camel train to the sacred city. 
Probably the corpse caravan ahead of us is on 
its way to one of the holy cities now.” 

The slow-moving line of camels, each with 


CARAVANS OF THE DESERT 145 


an oblong box or two strapped to its back, 
made a somber silhouette against the sky. And 
overhead the sinister birds were black against 
the sun. 

“ It fits in with the land,” said Judy. “ Some 
way, down here life and death seem nearer to 
each other, and the world is so old nothing 
matters.” 

“ Oho! the fatalism of this blooming land is 
getting into your bones, is it? ” J aggard smiled. 
“ Cheer up, Mrs. Savidge! Think of the sto- 
ries you can write when you hit Broadway 
again.” 

Stories! She had something to think about, 
at last. The days were forever gone when the 
people and events of her own imaginings were 
more real to her than the men and women in 
the world around her. To be sure, these days 
with the caravan were unreal, like scenes from 
an ancient tapestry; but new horizons seemed 
opening to her soul’s eyes; out of the dreams 
and visions of the old days something truer 
and saner was emerging; she was becoming 


146 


THE BEAR'S CLAWS 


a woman, a little touched by awe and wonder 
at the changes in herself, but awake at last to 
the meaning of life and love. 

She had plenty of time to think in the long, 
monotonous days; and she was inclined to be 
severe with herself in the light of her new 
wisdom. She told herself that when she mar- 
ried John Savidge because she wanted to see 
the world and taste adventure, she had behaved 
contemptibly, even if she had been honest in 
making no pretense to any higher motive. She 
agreed with herself that he would be justified 
in despising her, under the circumstances. But 
when she got to this point she could never 
honestly feel the contrition and shame she 
believed she should feel, for there came always 
the remembrance of her husband’s kiss as he 
stood in the door of the train at Tiflis; and 
from that kiss she knew, as even the most inex- 
perienced woman always knows, that he loved 
her. The thought sang in her heart. She 
would not acknowledge to herself that she was 
falling in love with her own husband; but 


CARAVANS OF THE DESERT 147 


she did own that something that had made 
the days in Tiflis golden, something that had 
thrown over them the glamour of true romance, 
was missing now. Many times a day she 
turned and looked wistfully behind her, over 
the diminishing trail, for so strong was her 
belief that not even Wolkonsky could obstruct 
the way of John Savidge long, that every cloud 
of dust on the horizon made her heart leap 
with hope. One afternoon they were over- 
taken by a company of hard-riding Cossacks. 
When they had swept by she realized in the 
sinking of her heart how keenly she had been 
hoping that among them there would be the 
one man without whom there seemed some- 
thing lacking even in the gorgeous pageantry 
of a desert sunset. 

“Well, I’m doing my best!” she consoled 
herself. “ I ’m carrying out his orders; I’m 
helping in the game!” And her hand went 
to a packet wrapped in silk and strung about 
her neck with a ribbon underneath her blouse 
— the map of Persepolis, the Lost City, and 


148 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


the directions in cipher by which she was 
to find the survey-maps should Savidge be 
detained too long to fetch them himself. 

Without Tom Jaggard, the long journey 
would have been maddening in its deliberate 
progress. The Great Jaggard was a never- 
failing source of anecdote, of droll observa- 
tions on the passing show, of light-hearted con- 
versation that sped many an hour that would 
otherwise have dragged intolerably. He had 
made himself J udy’s special knight-errant ; but 
to everyone alike he talked, from the muleteers 
to Mohammed Mirzi of Isfahan, who traveled 
with ten thousand dollars’ worth of carpets 
and four wives; and he boasted that he had 
even extracted a giggle from behind the cur- 
tains of a kajavah! 

Also he laid imperturbable siege to the fast- 
nesses of Miss Arlundsen’s eyes. The Oriental 
buyer for Rosenthal had taken charge of Judy, 
of Jaggard, and of Hassan before the journey 
was twenty-four hours old. Not officiously, 
but quietly, and, as a matter of course, she 


CARAVANS OF THE DESERT 149 


took them under her efficient wing. She had 
a superb savoir-faire, and a genius for spread- 
ing comfort around her that transformed even 
the most cheerless rest-house. It happened 
that at the end of the first day’s journey Judy 
had to be lifted from her horse. Sun-burnt, 
powdered with white dust, too stiff to walk, 
she sank down upon the rugs Hassan spread 
for her in a sheltered corner, and with the 
most amazing swiftness fell asleep. When 
she awakened, Miss Arlundsen had taken deft 
command of the situation. With a native bat- 
terie de cuisine, a pot of charcoal and a samo- 
var, she had achieved a dinner that was not 
far short of a miracle. Hassan was as wax in 
her hands ; her own servants were well-trained 
genii. Under her cool blue gaze they served 
a pilau, a roasted partridge, and a compote 
of apricots. Miss Arlundsen herself made the 
coffee; and one sip of it reduced Jaggard to 
a state of awed admiration. 

As long as she lived Judy never forgot that 
first night with the caravan — the kneeling 


150 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


camels black against the sunset, the bearded 
men waiting their turn at the windlass of a 
thousand-year-old well, the glow of smoky 
dung-fires striking upward on the faces of the 
low-caste women as they cooked the evening 
meal ; the turquoise and flamingo-tints of the 
sky, and over her head the first star blazing 
out. The tired beasts ate with grunts and 
mumblings of satisfaction, the caravan dogs 
frisked, drivers shouted and told long-winded 
yarns, and behind the half-drawn curtains of 
the kajavahs women dropped their veils and 
bandied jests that would have brought a blush 
to the cheek of the Porter of Bagdad. 

A chapar-khanah is the most comfortless 
apology for a night’s lodging imaginable; but 
before Miss Arlundsen’s ingenuity discomforts 
melted away. She showed Judy how to trans- 
form a niche in a stone wall into a workable 
boudoir; how to make a dressing-table from 
saddle-bags and a hand mirror; how best to 
arrange her sleeping-rugs, and how to save 
her complexion from the harsh ravages of sun 


CARAVANS OF THE DESERT 15 1 


and wind. She taught her how to wear 
her pugaree, and how to ride to save herself 
fatigue. When they came to a caravanserai 
that was too hot or too dirty or too crowded 
for a European woman to sleep in, Miss 
Arlundsen had her men pitch Judy’s small 
tent close to her own, so that she should not 
be lonely or afraid. In a hundred small ways 
she made herself invaluable as a fellow-trav- 
eler, and yet she never pressed her services 
upon Judy. She had always her cool air of 
detachment; she talked little and she was in 
fact a rather silent person; but sometimes, 
over their evening meal, an episode from Jag- 
gard’s Odyssey would set her to talking of the 
countries she had seen and the cities she had 
lived in, from St. Petersburg to Singapore. 
In these rare moments Judy’s eyes would be 
two sea-green wells of admiration, while Tom 
Jaggard would watch the Oriental representa- 
tive of Rosenthal with a certain twinkling 
speculation in his shrewd face. As he put it 
to himself, he couldn’t quite “get her num- 


152 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


ber ! ” There was something about Miss Lina 
Arlundsen he did not quite understand; but 
nevertheless he regarded her frankly as the 
most amazingly clever woman he had ever 
met. 

Finally there came a night when the cara- 
van made its last halt, at a serai half a day’s 
journey from Tabriz, and the end of the long 
journey was in sight. That evening even the 
camels and the donkeys seemed to realize that 
the end of the trail was near. There was a 
joyful hubbub as the drivers unloaded their 
charges for the night. The excitement that 
thrills through passengers at sea when land is 
in sight seemed to take possession of men and 
beasts alike. Tom Jaggard and even Miss 
Arlundsen caught the contagion, and Judy’s 
spirits soared at thought of the next day. She 
felt certain there would be a letter or at least 
a telegram for her in Tabriz. What in her 
inmost heart she really wanted was a letter 
from her husband bidding her wait for him in 


CARAVANS OF THE DESERT 153 


Tabriz. She had had enough of adventuring 
alone; and the weight of the packet she car- 
ried increased day by day until it seemed to 
lie heavy on her heart. 

But before she reached the end of that stage 
of her long journey, Judy was to learn her first 
lesson in the playing of the game, and was to 
get her first taste of defeat. 

She ate supper that night as usual with Miss 
Arlundsen and Jaggard in the gallery out- 
side the bala-khanah. They talked about the 
chances of getting into Tabriz by noon of the 
next day, just as a ship’s passengers speculate 
on the hour of landing. Very soon after the 
finish of the meal Miss Arlundsen said she 
was tired and went away along the gallery to 
her sleeping place at the other side of the 
serai gate. Jaggard lingered a few minutes in 
the doorway of the bala-khanah while Hassan 
spread Judy’s roll of blankets and rugs; then 
he, too, said good-night, and turned towards 
the stairs. 


154 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


“ You’d better get your beauty winks,” he 
called back to Judy. “They’ll dig out of 
here earlier than usual tomorrow.” 

“ I ’m going to turn in now,” she replied. 

Jaggard sat for an hour on the masonry 
steps leading to the cloisters. The moonlight 
played fantastic tricks with the kneeling 
camels, and silvered the muffled sleepers that 
lay about their fires in the manzil court. A 
caravan dog in search of food sniffed at his 
boots; Jaggard hissed at him “Tsst!” and the 
animal slunk away like a lean shadow. Over 
near the gate he could hear the guttural under- 
tones of two camel-men in conversation. And 
presently he saw the tall figure of Miss Ar- 
lundsen leisurely moving along the upper 
gallery. 

When she turned the corner she stepped 
into the shadow of the tower and the velvet 
blackness swallowed her up. He was thinking 
that she must have gone into her own room, 
when just over the gateway to the courtyard 
the red tip of a cigarette glowed, moved up 


CARAVANS OF THE DESERT 155 


and down for a moment, and then shot down 
to the ground like a falling star. At once a 
dim shape moved out from the shadow of the 
gateway below and picked up the still glowing 
cigarette. 

“Thrifty beggar,” Jaggard thought — “and 
extravagant Lina!” He had a jest on the tip 
of his tongue ready to call up to her, when a 
sudden hubbub of tongues and stamping of 
feet broke out beyond the serai gate. 

“ Ahi ! he is loose ! ” cried a hoarse voice, and 
Jaggard could hear the rush of a camel as 
it plunged through the night. He hurried 
down the steps, sprawling over a man in blan- 
kets on the ground, who awoke and swore in 
his beard : “ A curse on all unbelievers ! ” 

A dozen camel-men were talking excitedly 
at the entrance to the inner courtyard when 
Jaggard reached the gateway. “What’s the 
row?” he asked. 

“ Gone!” grunted one of the cameleers. 

“The swiftest of the Bactrians!” growled 
another. 


156 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


“Ahi!” said a third, shrugging his shoul- 
ders, “a weak knee-halter — it is the will of 
Allah, my brothers. Let us sleep.” 

They returned to their blankets, but Jag- 
gard relighted his pipe and stood for a few 
minutes at the gate. Far away in the dark- 
ness he could hear the padding feet of the 
escaped camel and the shouts and lamentations 
of the pursuing owner. Then the sounds grew 
fainter and fainter, until they ceased entirely. 

“It’s an all-night chase for that fellow, 
whoever he is,” he said, yawning and stretch- 
ing his arms. “ Well, it ’s none of my funeral ! ” 
He made his way back to the cloisters, rolled 
himself in his blankets, and went to sleep with 
the facility of a native. 


CHAPTER IX 


IN THE BALA-KHANAH 

I N the dim light of the next dawn he was 
kneeling over a smoky dung-fire, swear- 
ing softly at the obstinacy of inanimate 
things in general, and his kettle in particular, 
when he felt a light touch on his shoulder. 
Looking up, he forgot the greasy smoke and 
the kettle that would not boil, for Judy was 
standing beside him, her face as white as wood 
ashes and a tragic expression in her eyes. 

“ Tommy, my boy, what did I tell you? ” he 
said to himself. “ Did n’t I say she ’d need you 
some day?” Then aloud: “What’s the mat- 
ter, Mrs. Savidge? Seen a ghost?” 

His attempted jocularity could not conceal 
the concern in his voice. She looked at him 
with a long scrutiny, as if asking herself 
whether she should take him into her confi- 


157 


i5» 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


dence. His blue eyes, usually so droll, were 
grave as he returned her glance. “What is 
it, Memsahib?” he said, quietly. “You can 
trust me. You ’re from Home, you know ! ” 

“ I ’m in great trouble,” she answered. “ I 
need your help, but I can’t tell you.” 

Jaggard nodded. “I understand. Orders, 
quite right.” 

Judy moved nearer and lowered her voice. 
“ He told me to trust no one but Hassan. But, 
of course, he didn’t dream there would be 
you.” 

“Your husband knows the East, no one bet- 
ter. He knows that you can’t trust anyone, 
sometimes not even yourself, down here.” 

“I trust you,” said Judy, simply. “You 
must help me. Hassan is brave and faithful, 
but I need advice from someone of my own 
kind. I feel so strange and alone here among 
these people.” 

She looked with unhappy eyes, as she spoke, 
at the familiar morning scene — the bearded 
men in outlandish costumes, lashing huge bales 


IN THE B ALA-KHAN AH 


i59 


to grunting camels, haranguing, gesticulating, 
reviling one another’s birth and ancestry. All 
the life and color had gone out of the daily 
drama. Judy began to realize the truth that 
comes sooner or later to every traveler — that 
mood is a larger factor than atmosphere in 
accounting for one’s most satisfactory expe- 
riences. 

“ If somebody’s wrung your wad — I mean 
if it’s money you need,” said Jaggard, u don’t 
let that worry you. That’s one of the advan- 
tages of traveling with a real wiz. When we 
want money, all we have to do is to reach for 
it — see?” The Great Jaggard reached into 
the air and a silver coin twinkled at his finger 
tips. In his heart he knew that something 
more serious than the loss of money had hap- 
pened to Judy; but being a man, he could 
think of no better way to offer his assistance. 

She wrung her hands. “ I wish it were only 
money! ” Then she added, lowering her voice. 
“ I have lost some papers — his papers! Don’t 
you understand?” 


i6o 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


Jaggard nodded his head. 

“ They were valuable ; I can’t begin to tell 
you how valuable they were.” 

“ Of course! Men like John Savidge aren’t 
made for little things. Well, have you any 
idea where you lost them? ” 

“Lost them?” Judy’s eyes opened wide. “I 
did n’t mean it that way. They — they ’ve been 
stolen ! ” 

Jaggard puckered up his mouth as if he 
were going to whistle, but no sound came forth. 
“That’s a horse of another color. Are you 
sure?” 

“ Absolutely. There is no way I could have 
lost them. I had the papers when I undressed 
for bed last night.” 

“You’ve searched the bala-khanah?” 

“ Every inch of it. They ’re not there.” 

Jaggard rubbed his finger over his chin, a 
characteristic gesture when he was thinking 
hard. “Who was in the balcony last night?” 

“Why, there was Hassan, but, of course, 
you don’t suspect him! ” 


IN THE B ALA-KHAN AH 


161 


“ I don’t suspect anyone yet. But we may 
get some clue by the process of elimination. 
Who else?” 

Judy flushed and looked embarrassed. Jag- 
gard smiled. “ I was among those also pres- 
ent,” he prompted. 

“But it’s too absurd, even to think of you 
in that way!” 

“But you must,” said Jaggard. “In this 
game you must suspect everyone until he quali- 
fies for a coat of whitewash. Was there anyone 
else?” 

“No, that’s all,” she returned. “After you 
went away, Hassan went down to look after 
the horses, and I went to bed — no, I didn’t! 
I remember now! There was someone else in 
the bala-khanah last night!” 

“After Hassan had gone?” 

“Yes — Miss Arlundsen.” 

Jaggard’s eyes narrowed ; the wrinkles gath- 
ered around them and his mouth hardened. 

“Surely,” Judy cried, “you don’t suspect 
Miss Arlundsen?” 


162 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


“ My dear lady, I ’m only trying to get at 
the facts. What was Miss Arlundsen doing in 
the bala-khanah last night?” 

“ She wanted to borrow my peroxide. One 
of her corset steels broke when she was dis- 
mounting and made a jagged cut in her left 
side. She knew I carried peroxide in my 
medicine case — oh, really, it was a bad cut! 
I washed it with the peroxide and put on a 
bandage with adhesive plaster.” 

A curious look of compounded impishness 
and pity came into Jaggard’s face. “The case 
is getting interesting. Our old friend Sher- 
lock Holmes would eat it up, eh? ‘The 
Broken Corset-Steel; or, The Mystery of the 
Bala-khanah!’ Corking title, what?” 

“ Please don’t jest! It’s too serious! ” Judy’s 
lips trembled. 

“Don’t mind me; it’s only my way. I’d 
joke if I were going to be hanged tomorrow. 
It sort of helps me to think straight. And, by 
Allah! we’ve got to think straight if we get 
back those papers.” 


IN THE B ALA-KHAN AH 


163 

The samovar began to steam. Jaggard sug- 
gested that she make the tea while he got ready 
the eggs. “We don’t want to look like con- 
spirators,” he said. 

While she busied herself over the samovar, 
Judith described the missing packet. The 
papers had been folded small, wrapped in 
waterproof silk, and strung around her neck 
with a ribbon. She had been in the habit 
of wearing them thus night and day. When 
Miss Arlundsen came in, she had been ready 
for bed, and she had slipped on her traveling 
cloak before she found the peroxide. The 
papers were, as usual, in the packet, suspended 
from the ribbon under her nightrobe. 

“ When you bandaged the wound you had 
to bend over?” Jaggard asked her. 

“Of course,” she replied. 

“Could she have seen the packet?” 

“I’m not sure; but she could see the rib- 
bon around my neck, as she must have done 
before.” 

“That would be enough for a lady of her 


164 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


ability,” muttered J aggard. “ Well, what hap- 
pened after you bandaged the wound?” 

“She was telling me about the wonderful 
bazaars at Tabriz, and I was so interested 
we stood talking in the doorway for ten min- 
utes or more. Then she said good-night and 
went down the gallery towards her room. 
When I got back to the bala-khanah the lamp 
had flickered out. There was no more oil in 
the dish. I threw off my cloak in the dark 
and got into my blankets as best I could.” 

“You had the papers when you went to 
bed?” 

Her face flushed and she looked at him with 
distressed eyes. “I — I’m not sure. I’m 
afraid I forgot all about the papers. It was 
dark, you understand, and I was very sleepy 
and tired. I remember hearing some shouting 
in the serai, but I was too sleepy to pay much 
attention to it. The last thing I remember 
was Hassan saying ‘ Khuda hafiz’ to Miss 
Arlundsen. I didn’t know anything more 
until he called me at daybreak. It seems to 


IN THE BALA-KHANAH 


165 


me that the instant I woke up I thought of 
the packet. It was gone — snipped off the 
ribbon.” 

“ Have you any idea how it was taken?” 

“ Someone must have entered the bala- 
khanah during the night. But, yet, that 
doesn’t seem possible, with Hassan on guard. 
What do you think?” 

“ Personally,” said Jaggard, “I’d rather 
take a chance of breaking into the Shah’s 
seraglio than try to sneak by Hassan in the 
night.” 

“On the other hand, it isn’t possible that 
the papers could have been taken from me 
while I was awake.” She sat down wearily 
and held her cold hands out to the blaze of the 
fire. “ My head whirls with thinking about it ! 
I can’t understand it in the least.” 

“I can,” said Jaggard, grimly; “and it’s 
dollars to doughnuts Lina Arlundsen can, 
too!” 

Judy looked up at him with startled eyes. 
“But that’s absurd! In the first place, she 


1 66 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


couldn’t have taken the papers without my 
knowledge; and in the second place, they 
would do her no good. They’re written in 
cipher, and only three persons in the world 
know the key.” 

Jaggard rubbed his chin with a long fore- 
finger. A film came over his eyes, as if he 
had detached his mind from his surroundings 
and sent it searching among his memories. In 
a moment he dropped on one knee and began 
working over the fire. “ I don’t want to butt 
into your private affairs,” he said, lowering 
his voice, “ but there is one thing I ’d like to 
know: Was there anything in that packet 
that would be useful to the Russian Secret 
Service?” 

Judy turned white to the lips. He had only 
to look at her once to see that he had probed 
to the heart of her fear. His eyes began to 
snap and sparkle; but he lifted an egg from 
the fire as if wholly absorbed in the act. 
“Now, listen,” he went on. “There’s a 


IN THE BALA-KHANAH 


167 


woman in the Russian service, a wonderfully 
slick one. I Ve never seen her, v to my knowl- 
edge, but I’ve heard a great deal about her 
in the East. She’s the ablest operator on the 
staff of — Wolkonsky.” He paused after the 
name, and looked up quickly at Judy. “ You’ve 
heard of him?” 

Judy moistened her pale lips and nodded. 
“ I ’ve heard of him,” she said, faintly. “ But 
how do you connect Lina Arlundsen with this 
woman you speak of, and with Wolkonsky? 
You ’re just guessing, are n’t you? ” 

Jaggard sat back on his heels and smiled at 
her his broad, quizzical, bland smile. “ Guess- 
ing is my business, dear lady! Now, this 
woman I speak of is said to be only half Rus- 
sian — the rest of her is Scandinavian. Do 
you begin to see how I connect up? There’s 
no use beating about the bush, Mrs. Savidge. 
I ’ve known of your husband and of his busi- 
ness for the last five years, and I know that 
the Secret Service is on his track. It’s an easy 


1 68 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


guess that your papers are on their way to 
St. Petersburg now, by way of Teheran, most 
likely.” 

Judy stared at him with a blanched face. 
Her eyes were enormous, and her hands wrung 
themselves together. “Oh, I can’t believe it! 
And even if she took them she couldn’t read 
them; she couldn’t read our cipher in a thou- 
sand years!” 

“If she’s the woman I think she is, she’ll 
read it. She ’s a cipher expert. They say she ’s 
never been stuck, and those Nihilists give her 
a heap of practice.” 

Judy knit her brows and thought desper- 
ately. “But it’s absurd to say that even a 
clever woman could take that packet under my 
very eyes!” 

“Perhaps so,” drawled Jaggard. “And I 
don’t suppose anyone could take that watch 
from your belt without your knowing it! ” 

Judy’s hand flew to the small gunmetal 
watch at her belt. “ Of course not, not if I ’m 
awake! ” 


IN THE B ALA-KHAN AH 


169 


Jaggard changed the subject. “If no one 
can read those papers, why does it matter if 
they’re gone?” 

Judy hesitated for a moment. She felt as 
if the very ground under her feet was uncer- 
tain; but she was desperately in need of help, 
and in appealing to Jaggard she was obeying 
an intuition that was stronger than reason. 
“Those papers,” she said, at last, “are a key 
to the location of some valuable plans. They 
represent something my husband has fought 
for and lived for, and he trusted them to me! 
That is what hurts, now that I have lost them. 
I don’t believe the Russian Secret Service can 
make use of the papers if they fall into their 
hands, on account of the cipher; but that 
isn’t the point. If anything should happen to 
my husband, I am to get the plans myself, 
and without the key I’m not sure — not abso- 
lutely sure — I can find them, they are hidden 
away so safely.” 

“Oh, Lina!” said Jaggard, with a chuckle 
of grim delight, “ I ’m on to your graft now — 


170 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


I sabe your little game! Have another cup 
of tea?” 

Judy mechanically held out her cup, and 
Jaggard poured a little on her skirt, apolo- 
gized for his awkwardness, and with his hand- 
kerchief wiped away the few drops of tea. 

“ Never mind the tea. What would you 
advise me to do?” Judy asked him. “ I must 
get those papers back, whatever happens. 
Have you any suggestions?” 

He looked across the courtyard thought- 
fully, and up at the gallery in front of the 
bala-khanah. “Here comes Hassan. Now, 
this is my advice: Finish your breakfast as 
if nothing had happened, and I ’ll go up and 
have a little casual conversation with the 
daughter of the Vikings.” 

Judy rose to follow him. “Then I’ll go 
with you,” she said. 

Jaggard put out a detaining arm. “ I think 
you’d better let me see her alone. If I’m 
to help you, I ’ve got to play the game my own 
way — see? You wait for me here. The cara- 


IN THE B ALA-KHAN AH 


171 

van will start in half an hour, but I think 
before then we’ll have a clue.” 

He started across the courtyard, but half- 
way to the stairs he turned suddenly and came 
back to her. His face wore its broadest smile. 

“ I forgot to give you this.” He held out his 
hand. Lying in its palm was Judy’s little 
watch. 

“ How — how did you do it?” she gasped. 

“ Sleight-of-hand, when I spilled the tea.” 

He grinned down at her nonplused face. 
“ It’s my trade,” he explained. “ And if Lina 
Arlundsen’s the woman I think she is, she can 
give me cards and spades and beat me out 
with both hands tied ! ” 


CHAPTER X 

GREEK MEETS GREEK 

A S Jaggard strode across the serai the first 
rays of the rising sun splashed red on 
the manzil walls. A tom-tom sounded 
in the tower and a shrill voice cried : 

“Allah il Allah, there is no God but God!” 
The faithful in the courtyard prostrated 
themselves in the dust, their faces toward 
Mecca; and from their swarthy throats came 
the thundering response : 

“ There is no God but God ! ” 

Jaggard made his way up the dark flight of 
stairs and along the corridor towards the bala- 
khanah. And as he walked he reconstructed 
the theft of Judy’s papers. No one knew bet- 
ter than he what a simple matter it must have 
been for a person with trained fingers. A half 
turn of the body, a slight jostle of the victim 

172 


GREEK MEETS GREEK 


173 


at the critical moment, and the trick was done. 
The only tool needed was a tiny pair of scis- 
sors concealed in the hand. To snip the rib- 
bon and palm away the packet offered no 
insurmountable difficulties to one possessed of 
the requisite nerve and dexterity. 

He found Miss Arlundsen in the gallery 
above the serai gate. She was sitting cross- 
legged on the floor like a native, her back 
against the parapet, placidly engaged in a 
game of solitaire. 

“ Good-morning, M’sieu J aggard,” she said, 
pleasantly returning his greeting as he paused 
in front of her. She rolled the “r” and 
accented the last syllable as a Frenchwoman 
would have done. “ One has to pass the time 
in some way — is it not so?” She pointed to 
the cards on the floor. 

Jaggard pulled out his pipe, filled the bowl 
with yellow Persian tobacco, tamping it down 
with a slim forefinger. Then with equal delib- 
eration he lit up and exhaled a cloud of blue 
smoke into the frosty morning air. 


174 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


“ Don’t you find it rather tame?” he asked 
at length, with a dry chuckle. 

“What do you mean?” Her voice was 
mildly indifferent. Jaggard looked at her 
admiringly: at the trig, spick figure in riding- 
skirt and jacket of brown tweed, at the helmet 
resting on the coiled ropes of yellow hair, at 
the creamy freshness of her cheeks and the 
perfect oval of her chin. The eyes she lifted 
inquiringly to Jaggard’s were as coldly blue 
as a wintry sky. “ I ’d give a good deal if I 
could hear what’s going on under that hel- 
met,” he said to himself. Then aloud: “I 
should think you’d find poker more in your 
line?” 

“I do not understand you,” replied Miss 
Arlundsen. 

“No, of course not. I’ll elucidate. Lis- 
ten!” pointing to the cards. “That’s a dinky 
game — get that? — a kindergarten recreation 
compared with what you usually play. Sabe? ” 

“A kindergarten game?” she spoke slowly 
in her beautiful, precise English. “ Is it what 


GREEK MEETS GREEK 


I 75 


you Americans call a — joke?” She turned 
a card. “ You are so droll, you Americans ! ” 

“We’re a nation of cut-ups, Lina!” He 
grinned audaciously as he used her name. Her 
eyelids fluttered, but she did not look up. 
“We’re the real goods when it comes to doping 
out the dido stuff. But this is no joke. I ’m in 
dead earnest. I’ve white-chipped my way 
into this game, and I intend to draw cards — 
sabe?” 

Miss Arlundsen did not seem to hear. Chin 
in hand, she studied the cards. “Two kings 
in the top row,” she murmured. “ M’sieu J ag- 
gard, I ’ll wager you a hundred kran I make 
the game! ” 

Jaggard sucked thoughtfully at his pipe, 
and the wrinkles gathered around his eyes. 
Here was a woman after his own heart — 
shrewd, cool, adroit; and it was with an unac- 
customed thrill he realized that he should 
have need of all his resources if he was to 
play the game with her. It was one of the 
great moments in the life of the Great Jag- 


176 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


gard. But his placid face gave no hint of the 
pleasurable emotions that glowed in his soul. 

“The odds are against you,” he said aloud. 
What he said to himself was: “Careful, 
Tommy, or here’s where the lady gets a mort- 
gage on your goat.” 

Miss Arlundsen shrugged her shoulders. 
“Are you afraid to take the bank?” There 
was a note of mockery in her voice that flicked 
him like the lash of a skillfully handled whip. 
Under the purring softness of her voice — a 
note quite different from the cold incisiveness 
of her usual tone — it seemed to him that he 
detected a challenge to play a bigger game 
than the cards stood for. Every drop of gam- 
bling blood in his body stirred. There never 
had been a game that Tom Jaggard would not 
play, never a hazard so preposterous that he 
would not take the small end of the bet. 

“ Make it something worth while,” he re- 
turned, genially; “say two hundred kran, and 
I ’ll take the bank.” 

“As you please! ” She turned down a card. 


GREEK MEETS GREEK 


177 


“Ah! another king, and a space in the top 
row. They seem to be — how do you say it? 
— coming my way? Is it not so?” 

“They do for a fact!” he said, slowly. 
“Everything’s coming your way. You sure 
are a wonder! I ’ll take off mv hat to you any 
day in the week! ” 

She lifted her eyebrows. “What for? I 
don’t understand.” 

“That’s French for I’m stuck on your 
work. There’s nothing coarse about it, Lina! 
It’s megalorious, all to the good, and eighteen 
karats fine. I ’ve been doing the hanky-panky 
stunt for twenty years, but you’ve got me 
trimmed twenty ways to Sunday. The under- 
signed is a piker compared with you!” 

“ Again I don’t understand.” 

“You don’t sabe, eh? Well, then, my dear, 
I’ll spiel it to you in words of one syllable. 
I ’m a committee of one appointed to request 
you to please keep off the grass. The game ’s 
up, Lina — hand over those papers ! ” 

Miss Arlundsen did not answer. She ap- 


178 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


peared to be engrossed in the cards on the 
floor. 

“ Well?” There was a hard note of impa- 
tience in his voice. 

“Papers?” she asked, wrinkling her fore- 
head as if in perplexity. “What papers?” 

“The papers you took from Judith Savidge 
in the bala-khanah last night. I want ’em — 
understand? I want ’em before we leave the 
caravanserai.” There was nothing genial 
about the Great Jaggard now. 

Miss Arlundsen looked at him, and her 
gaze was one of utter incomprehensibility. 
“Judith,” she murmured; “Judith is a very 
pretty name; one does not hear it often.” 

“ I want those papers, now!” 

“ You are so amusing, M’sieu J aggard ! ” she 
retorted, smilingly. 

“ I ’ll be a scream before I ’m through,” he 
said, grimly. He took a step forward and 
stood squarely in front of her. “What’s the 
use of palavering? We’re only wasting time. 
You understand, all right, so pony up — pro- 


GREEK MEETS GREEK 


179 


duce!” Then his manner changed and the 
wrinkles of humor gathered under his eyes. 
“Come,” he said, “be a good girl, and we’ll 
play solitaire, casino — any old game you 
like!” 

The woman turned up a card indifferently. 

“ Ah ! the fourth king, M’sieu J aggard. An- 
other hundred kran that I make the game? ” 

Looking down at her, the genial patience of 
Jaggard seemed suddenly to give way. He 
lowered his sandy head. His face became 
threatening and ugly. “ Damn the game ! ” he 
snapped. “ I want those papers! I ’m no ten- 
derfoot; you can’t play me for a sucker! 
You’ve got ’em, and I’ll have them if I have 
to strip every rag off your back!” 

Lina Arlundsen leaped to her feet. “You 
swine!” she snarled. “You even touch me and 
I’ll kill you!” 

The veneer of her cool poise seemed to 
crack; and the soul of her, vindictive, enraged, 
and quite fearless, blazed through. There 
flowered a vivid crimson spot on each cheek. 


i8o 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


As they stood confronting each other there 
floated up to them the droning intonation of 
the faithful : 

“There is no God but God, and Mahomet 
is the slave of God! ” 

The man was the first to recover himself. 
“That’s all right, my dear!” he said, mildly. 
“All you have to do is to hand over those 
papers. I ’m up to your little game, you see.” 

The vivid spot faded slowly from her 
cheeks, and an insolent gleam came into her 
eyes. “What is your little game, M’sieu?” 
she inquired. 

Jaggard resumed his habitual attitude, 
thumbs in pockets, head thrust forward, legs 
wide apart. “ Don’t make such rude insinua- 
tions, my dear,” he said, pleasantly. “They 
hurt my feelings and get on my nerves. Come, 
let’s chuck this rapid-fire act. You know my 
game ’s on the square. I ’m not connected with 
the Russian Secret Service ! Don’t suppose you 
ever heard of the Service — eh? Or of Serge 
Wolkonsky, either?” 


GREEK MEETS GREEK 


1 8 1 


A subtle and almost imperceptible harden- 
ing of her face was the only sign she showed 
that this random shot had gone home. There 
was anger and defiance in her eyes, but no 
fear. It flashed into J aggard’s mind that even in 
her outburst of anger there had not been a hint 
of the fear a person would show that carried 
something another was threatening to take by 
force. There had not been a single betraying 
gesture or glance. The fierce blaze of anger she 
showed had in it only the element of personal 
repulsion. 

He was forced to a single conclusion: 
she showed no fear because she had nothing to 
be afraid of — the papers were not in her pos- 
session. If it had not been for that subtle 
change in her expression when he mentioned 
the Service and Wolkonsky, he would begin 
to feel uncertain of his ground. As it was, he 
merely felt puzzled. 

“Talk is cheap, M’sieu Jaggard,” she 
sneered. From the pocket of her jacket she 
took a tiny silver cigarette case, lighted a cig- 


182 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


arette, and tossed the match down into the 
courtyard. 

The glowing tip of her cigarette reminded 
him of something; for an instant his mind 
went groping for the elusive suggestion. Then 
suddenly, as if the spark from the cigarette 
had lighted up a series of pictures before his 
mind’s eye, he saw again a red spark shooting 
downward like a falling star, saw a dim figure 
creep out from the shadow of the serai gate, 
pick up the glowing butt of a cigarette, and 
melt again into the shadow. And he heard 
again the thud of a camel running away into 
the night. 

“ Oh, good work! ” he cried aloud. “ Good 
work, my dear! I don’t suppose you know 
anything about the camel that broke its halter 
and ran away last night?” 

It was a bit of sheer guessing, but her face 
turned white, the creamy white of ivory, al- 
though her eyes did not waver. “ How 
should I know?” she retorted, disdainfully. 
“What have I to do with camels?” 


GREEK MEETS GREEK 


183 

“ Nothing, of course! How should you 
know that the swiftest of the Bactrians was 
stampeded at the serai gate last night? How 
should you know that its driver waited in the 
shadow of the tower for a signal — the drop- 
ping of a lighted cigarette? How should you 
know that a woman, leaning over the parapet 
above, gave the signal and dropped a packet 
at his feet? And I don’t suppose you have a 
suspicion that the packet is now in a saddle- 
bag of that camel, on the way to — Wolkon- 
sky — eh?” 

She stared at him with a malicious gleam in 
her blue eyes. “You are so clever, M’sieu,” 
she said, “ it is a pity you are going to lose this 
game.” 

She sat down again and turned up a card or 
two, with her tapering, skillful fingers. Jag- 
gard looked down at her with the light of 
honest admiration in his eyes. “Say, Lina!” 
he remarked, candidly, “you and I could clean 
up all the fall guys between Port Said and 
’Frisco! What a team we’d make! We’d 


184 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


trim ’em all. The captains of high finance 
would be as easy as the rubes.” 

Miss Arlundsen pointed to the four packets 
of cards face upward on the floor. On the top 
of each packet was a king. 

“I win, M’sieu Jaggard,” she said, mock- 
ingly. 

“Win? Of course, you win!” he drawled. 
“You win everything in sight, hands down.” 
He tossed the money into her lap. “ But one 
of these days, my dear, there may be another 
deal, and then it’ll be my turn to shuffle the 
cards!” 

As he walked back across the manzil court 
there was a stirring outside the serai gate that 
betokened the starting of the caravan. Jag- 
gard hastily, but none the less picturesquely, 
sketched for Judy his interview with Miss 
Arlundsen. 

“Remember that old buccaneer with the 
black beard and yellow girdle that stuck 
to you like a poor relation that night at 
Akstafa?” he asked her. “Well, I figure out 





' 7 , rr^ 




. 


* 








. - 4 •- *r*v 
<**-' ■ /" 


“I win, M’sieu Jaggard” 


















' 








GREEK MEETS GREEK 


185 


he’s the one that did the job. Probably was 
ordered to shadow you till our friend Lina 
arrived on the scene. You remember she came 
in from Tiflis on the next train after you? ” 
Judy’s face became haggard. “I wish I 
could be sure,” she sighed. 

“It’s the surest thing you know! By this 
time that yellow-girdled Arab is fifty miles 
away and skyhooting for Teheran, or wherever 
your friend Wolkonsky holds forth. I’ll tell 
you what — we’ll hang around the gate when 
the caravan starts, and if his whiskers is n’t in 
the procession, it ’s a cinch he ’s got the goods ! ” 
For an instant Judy’s composure gave way 
and she dropped her face in her hands. Jag- 
gard patted her shoulder awkwardly. “The 
game’s never lost till the last card’s played, 
my dear!” he said. “Look here — I’m for 
you, you know, and that’s something, if I do 
say it! We’ll beat out little Lina yet. What 
are your plans, if you don’t mind telling me, 
after you get to T abriz ? ” 

Judy looked up with a feverish color in her 


1 86 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


cheeks. “ There ’s a man I ’m to see in Tabriz. 
He may possibly have some message for me 
from my husband. If there ’s no word for me, 
I really don’t know what I shall do.” 

“ Is this man someone you can depend on?” 

“ His name is Gholam Rezah. Do you 
know him?” 

“Know of him,” Jaggard said. “He’s a 
pretty big man in Persia — got all kinds of 
dough. He used to publish a paper in Te- 
heran until he joined the revolutionary party. 
Then the paper was suppressed and Gholam 
was banished from the capital. He’s at the 
head of a big secret society that’s working to 
establish a liberal government and save the 
country from the clutches of Russia — sort of 
Young Persian party, you see. He’s done all 
he can to keep Russia from getting railroad 
concessions, and I reckon he and your husband 
know each other pretty well.” 

Judy nodded absently. Then she stood up 
and her face flushed. Miss Arlundsen was 
coming towards them across the courtyard 


GREEK MEETS GREEK 


187 


with her free, swinging stride. Her expres- 
sion was, as usual, coldly serene. 

“ Don’t let her think she ’s got you worried,” 
Jaggard admonished her in an undertone. 
“Just trail along till it comes time to draw 
cards, then stand pat.” 

Miss Arlundsen’s good-morning was as cool 
and crisp as usual. She was as unaffectedly 
cordial as she had been at any time during the 
journey. She smiled and nodded to Jaggard 
and then turned to Judy. 

“M’sieu Jaggard has told me of your mis- 
fortune,” she said. “ I ’m very sorry.” 

“ Really, it’s nothing of great importance,” 
Judy answered, coldly. “The papers I lost 
will be of no value whatsoever to the finder.” 

Her chin was up and her eyes unflinchingly 
met Miss Arlundsen’s scrutiny. “ She’s play- 
ing the game! ” Jaggard thought. 

“No? I am glad,” said Miss Arlundsen. 
“ I must have misunderstood M’sieu Jaggard. 
One cannot always tell what M’sieu means 
from his language — is it not so? I, too, have 


1 8 8 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


lost many things on these journeys — money, 
jewels, valuables. They are all thieves.” She 
inclined her head toward the camel-men bus- 
tling about in their varied preparations for 
departure. 

“ Especially the black-bearded pirates with 
yellow girdles,” Jaggard staccatoed. 

Miss Arlundsen smiled, with ever so slight 
a lift of her fine eyebrows. “ I dare say one is 
as bad as another,” she returned, indifferently. 
Then she turned away and walked deliberately 
across the courtyard. Jaggard looked after 
her strong, graceful figure and whistled reflect- 
ively between his teeth. 

“ And yet they won’t let ’em vote,” he rumi- 
nated, screwing up his face until it resembled 
a gargoyle. 

Judy stood with him in the shadow of the 
tower, while the grumbling camels shambled 
through the serai gate. The black-bearded 
cameleer with the yellow girdle, who piloted 
the fleet-footed Bactrian dromedary, was not 
in the cavalcade, and Judy was compelled to 


GREEK MEETS GREEK 


189 


admit that circumstantial evidence favored 
Jaggard’s theory. It was with a heavy heart 
she mounted her shaggy pony and followed in 
the wake of the caravan on the last stage of 
the journey to Tabriz. 

It was the beginning of April, and almost 
in a night a magical change had been wrought 
over the land. All the way down from Akstaf a 
the caravan had crawled across desolate plains, 
pinched and shrewdish and old. But this 
morning as she rode out of the serai gate Judy 
could scarcely believe her eyes. In the night 
rain had fallen. Where the day before had 
been stony waste and saffron-colored plain, 
today was the green plenitude of spring, 
gently waving grass, and nodding wild flowers. 
The air was heavy with the odor of growing 
herbage, and more than once the caravan 
sheered from the beaten oath to graze across 
the plain. 

But April is April the world over — coy, 
uncertain, trembling between laughter and 
tears. The morning was insincerely bright, 


190 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


flashing and glittering with those siren smiles 
that lure to ambuscades of rain. The caravan 
had not covered half of the three remaining 
farsakhs of the journey before the rain came 
down, at first in iridescent showers, the sun 
smiling through the scudding drops, then in 
a cold gray mizzle. The sky sagged low, and 
Judy strained her eyes in vain for a glimpse 
of the domes and minarets of world-old 
Tabriz. 

The caravan sloshed through the yellow 
mud, the men with blankets shrouding their 
faces, the women with the curtains of the kaja- 
vahs drawn taut against the storm. Hour after 
hour they plodded along sluggishly. Then 
about noon a tremor of excitement rippled 
through the cavalcade. There were guttural 
shouts of “Ahe! Ahi!” and, breasting a low 
hill no bigger than an ocean roller, wall- 
ringed Tabriz stretched before them with its 
monotonous expanse of flat-roofed, single- 
storied houses, broken up by the domed arches 
of the bazaars, the minarets of the mosques, 


GREEK MEETS GREEK 


191 

and the shouldering wall of the ancient cita- 
del. As the caravan entered the city the sun 
smote through the leaden sky and slanted on 
the Masjid-i-Kabud, the famous blue Mosque 
of Mohammedan history. It flushed the dome 
and arches encrusted with blue tile bordered 
with a faience of yellow, white, and black, 
until, seen through the mist, the crumbling 
walls appeared to take on a hundred unreal 
shapes. 

Judy held her breath. Though she was 
soaked to the skin and bedraggled gener- 
ally, the momentary glimpse of the witchery 
wrought by sun and mist was worth all the 
discomforts of the journey. Then the sun 
disappeared, the rain fell gray and sheer, and 
the caravan wound its way through the narrow, 
labyrinthine streets to the bazaars. 

Rain at home is restful, but away from 
home it is the dreariest thing imaginable. 
Judy, ensconced in the bala-khanah of the 
huge caravanserai attached to the bazaars, was 
miserable in mind and body, and disposed to 


192 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


rebel against the ancient law that imposes 
upon the stranger within the gates an obliga- 
tion to conform to the customs and usages of 
the citizenry. As soon as she had donned dry 
clothing she would have set out at once for 
the house of the Aga Gholam Rezah, but 
Jaggard wagged his head against the plan. 

“You’re not in Gallipolis or Keokuk,” he 
explained. “Over here people don’t gossip 
over the backyard fence or run in any old time 
for a visit. Rezah ’s one of the leading citi- 
zens. According to local etiquette, you’ve 
got to give him at least two hours’ notice.” 

So Hassan was despatched to the house of 
Rezah, and returned with the information that 
Savidge Memsahib would be received at two 
hours before sunset. 

Depending on Hassan’s sense of Oriental 
chronology, they set out from the caravanserai, 
for Judy had begged Jaggard to see her as 
far as the door, with Hassan leading and Jag- 
gard bringing up the rear. They threaded 
their way through the narrow, tortuous streets 


GREEK MEETS GREEK 


193 


that reeked with filth, until they came to a stop 
at last before a narrow, unpainted door, stud- 
ded with brass nails and ornamented with an 
exquisite knocker of figured iron. The exte- 
rior of the house was merely a wall of mud 
plaster, without so much as a window; and 
Judy was unprepared for the surprise that 
awaited her when the attendant escorted her 
through a dark passage that led into a spacious 
court laid out with trees and shrubbery and 
flowers and paved with the wonderful opal- 
escent reflet tiles that are the glory of Persian 
artisans. A fountain plashed musically in a 
tiled basin; goldfish darted to and fro in the 
crystal pool. On each side of the court were 
doors before which hung superb portieres. 
The air was heavy with the scent of musk and 
jasmine. 

With a low salaam the attendant left her, 
and Judy, standing beside the crystal pool, had 
an embarrassed sense of being watched by 
someone she could not see. She took an uncer- 
tain step forward, past a flowering shrub, and 


194 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


then she saw that a stairway climbed upward 
from the end of the court beyond the pool, 
and a man stood, evidently waiting for her, at 
its foot. 

This was plainly Gholam Rezah. He was 
a short, bulky man, shaggy as a buffalo, with 
a broad, swarthy face, a grizzled beard and 
mustache, and a nose shaped like a carrot. He 
stood in his stockinged feet to receive her, and 
he wore a lambskin cap, thus fulfilling Persian 
ideas of good form. He bowed gravely as 
Judy advanced. 

“ Peace be unto you!” he said, in the ver- 
nacular. And then, in fluent, if rather guttural, 
English, he inquired after her health and the 
health of Savidge Sahib. As he talked he con- 
ducted her to a divan covered with a tiger 
skin. From somewhere behind one of the 
portieres came a subdued silken rustle. Judy 
made a shrewd guess that the eternal feminine 
stood behind one of those magnificent door 
coverings. Her imagination thrilled to the 
beauty and mystery of this surprising house, 


GREEK MEETS GREEK 


195 


in spite of her perplexities, and, also, in spite 
of the carrot nose of Gholam Rezah! 

The pool, the flowering trees, the swinging 
priceless tapestries, became more than ever 
like some setting from the Thousand and One 
Nights, when two attendants entered noise- 
lessly, leaving their sandals at the door, to 
place in front of her, on a low table, a tray of 
jellied eggs, rose leaf preserves, sweetmeats, 
and tea. Courtesy compelled her to eat and 
to reply to the polite nothings of her host; 
but before the last servant had backed out, tak- 
ing with him the tea things, she asked Gholam 
Rezah the question that had been burning on 
her lips since she entered: 

“ Is there anything for me — any letter or 
message?” 

Her host shook his head. “ There is none, 
Memsahib. I myself have had no word from 
the Sahib since a certain letter he wrote me a 
few days before he was to leave Tiflis.” 

“ You know of his arrest? ” 

“ A few days ago I learned of it from one of 


196 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


my men stationed at Tiflis. Anything I can 
do to aid you or the Sahib I will do. Is it your 
intention to go on to — ” 

He made a polite pause. “To Isfahan,” 
Judy supplied. 

In spite of her efforts, her voice trembled a 
little. She had made so certain there would 
be a letter or telegram for her from Savidge, 
that she felt a sickening sense of disappoint- 
ment now that she learned there was not so 
much as a word from him. Gholam Rezah 
bent upon her his grizzled, shaggy brows, that 
moved up or down as he talked, with an aston- 
ishing facility. 

“You must not be concerned because there 
is no message from your husband, Memsahib. 
I hear that he is still held for trial, and under 
the circumstances it would be useless, if not 
unwise, to try to communicate with you. Every 
telegram or letter he sent out would be read 
by the authorities, and a code or cipher mes- 
sage would be confiscated.” 


GREEK MEETS GREEK 


197 


“ How long do you think they can detain 
him in Tiflis?” she asked. 

Rezah’s great eyebrows went up ironically. 
“As long as is necessary for their purpose, 
Madame, unless he forces them to set him free. 
Your husband is a very accomplished person, 
Madame! But the charge against him is con- 
spiracy against an official — a serious offense, 
on Russian territory.” 

“Then,” said Judy, slowly, “then I shall 
have to go on alone.” 

He looked at her questioningly, and she told 
him about the theft of the packet. His deep- 
set eyes gleamed and his eyebrows worked 
alarmingly as he listened. His manner 
changed. He was no longer the Oriental, 
suavely offering her tea and polite conversa- 
tion, but a politician of craft and cunning, 
who summoned a shrewd mind to weigh every 
chance and trick of his enemy. 

“ Wolkonsky is probably in Teheran.” He 
ran over the points against their side. “ The 


198 


THE BEAR'S CLAWS 


papers stolen from you are on their way to 
him now, without doubt — ” 

“Bur there is only a map and a few words 
of direction in cipher. Surely he can make 
nothing of that?” she interrupted. 

Forthe least fraction of a second there shone 
in the eyes of Gholam Rezah a gleam of 
Oriental contempt for the feminine mind. But 
his voice was patiently polite as he assured 
her no cipher would prove a serious obstacle 
to the Russian Secret Service. 

“ Cipher writing was invented in Russia,” 
he chuckled. “Then what happens? With 
the aid of your map and your cipher, Wol- 
konsky will go to this spot, or will send one of 
his staff; he will find your husband’s valu- 
able plans; he will return to Teheran, where 
he will put himself into communication with 
St. Petersburg. After that” — he gave an ex- 
pressive shrug — “Savidge Sahib will find he 
has done his work for Russia.” 

Judy sat still for a moment, looking down at 
her clasped hands. Something that was not 


GREEK MEETS GREEK 


199 


at all like the despair and fear she had known 
since the packet was stolen stirred in her 
fiercely. She sent a keen glance at the brood- 
ing face of Gholam Rezah. 

“ Could one traveling as fast as possible get 
to — say, Pasagardae — before a person could 
reach the same point from Teheran?” she 
asked. 

His eyes gleamed at her under their griz- 
zled thatch. 

“You mean?” 

“ I mean that I am going to get to the place 
where those plans are hidden first. If I can 
beat Wolkonsky there, I believe I can find 
them, map or no map. And I ’m going to try. 
Will you help me, Mr. Rezah?” 

The shrewd eyes of the Aga Gholam Rezah 
expressed something that was almost admira- 
tion. He sat for a long time stroking his beard 
and thinking. Then : “ It can be done. A 
forced journey straight to Isfahan; then south 
about thirty-seven farsakhs, if it be the will 
of Allah!” 


200 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


He clapped his hands sharply, and a 
servant came, to whom he gave an order. 

“ I have sent for one that will arrange the 
matter of post-horses. It is necessary to lose 
no time. Tomorrow, at the sixth hour after 
sunrise, Nusr-ed-Deen Shah will present him- 
self to you at the caravanserai. By that time 
all details of the journey will have been at- 
tended to. In Isfahan there is one — ” He 
paused to write a name and address on a tablet 
that he took from his broad girdle. “ There is 
one that will meet you when you arrive. He 
will aid you under instructions from me. Now, 
it is necessary to know what escort you have 
with you, Madame.” 

Judy’s mind flew to Jaggard. “ I have Ab- 
dallah ibh Hassan — ” Rezah nodded as if 
satisfied — “and an American that I can de- 
pend on, who will go with us as far as Isfahan.” 

“ That is enough,” he decided. “ The roads 
are safe; a small party travels fast and light. 
At Isfahan my men will reinforce your guard, 


GREEK MEETS GREEK 


201 


unless it falls out that Savidge Sahib meets 
you there.” 

Judy looked up quickly. “Do you think 
that a possibility?” 

Rezah gave a grim nod. “We have a prov- 
erb, Memsahib: ‘The jackal that lives in the 
wilds of Mazanderan can only be caught by 
the hounds of Mazanderan.’ Gholam Rezah 
is going to enter the chase, Madame, and we 
shall see!” 

He tugged at his beard, his half-hidden 
eyes gleaming under their overhanging brows. 
Judy sat still, scarcely daring to breathe. 

“ You tell me he was arrested at the instance 
of the Khadkhuda of Tiflis?” he asked her, 
after a moment’s thought. 

“Yes,” she nodded. 

A glitter of triumph came into the eyes of 
Gholam Rezah. For the first time during their 
interview he showed the points of his yellow 
teeth in a smile that turned his broad face 
into the face of a satyr. 


202 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


“ 1 recall a small affair of the Khadkhuda 
of Tiflis,” he murmured in his beard; “it is 
convenient to have a good memory. I think, 
Madame, your husband will not be detained 
much longer! I shall send an attendant back 
to the caravanserai with you.” 

He clapped his hands again. A servant 
came with lights, two great bowls like amber 
moons; and another followed with a Chinese 
lantern in each hand. It had darkened while 
they talked, and now the courtyard and the 
pool were full of shadows and soft rustlings. 
From behind one of the portieres came the 
distant tinkle of some zither-like instrument. 
Rezah walked with Judith across the court- 
yard. Ahead of them the lanterns floated 
down the darkness of the corridor. 

“You will know my men,” Gholam Rezah 
lowered his voice, “by the proverb of the 
jackal of Mazanderan. You will remember 
it, Madame?” 

“ I shall remember it,” she said. “ Thank 
you, and — khuda hafiz!” 


GREEK MEETS GREEK 


203 


Hassan rose up from the stone floor of the 
anteroom, and Jaggard, the faithful, joined 
her outside. The two great white muslin lan- 
terns bobbed ahead of them down the inky 
streets. For the first time since she came out 
to seek adventure, Judith felt something of 
the thrill that runs like quicksilver through 
the veins of the true soldier of fortune when 
he hears the call of a lost cause. She felt 
strung to a pitch of exhilaration that made her 
almost gay. Jaggard looked down at her in 
thoughtful surprise when she spoke, her voice 
had in it such a ring of excitement. 

“ Mr. Jaggard, you like a gambling chance, 
don’t you?” she asked. “Do you want to 
take one with me? I’m going to Isfahan and 
then south, a long way south, unless I get 
other orders. In plain American, I ’m going 
to beat Mr. Serge Wolkonsky to it! Do you 
want to take a hand?” 

A long, slow, seraphic grin split the face 
of Tom Jaggard into two parts. “ Do I want 
to take a hand? Do I? My dear, you 


204 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


couldn’t keep me out of the game now, not 
with an ax! Say, I’m for you, understand 
that? I ’d walk from here to Isfahan to beat 
that Lina woman ; but it ain’t that altogether, 
no, not altogether. You, well, you’re from 
Home, you see. Just put me wise to the game 
and I ’ll chip in and draw cards.” 

His voice became suddenly hard. “It’s 
only our edge now, Memsahib ; but I reckon 
when it comes our turn to deal, they won’t 
shift the cut on us, or ring in a cold deck 
again — not if I can help it! ” 


CHAPTER XI 

ON THE ROAD TO ISFAHAN 

I T is five hundred miles, as the crow flies, 
from Tabriz to Isfahan, and not much 
farther by way of the ancient caravan 
route; for the old merchants that carried the 
first commerce of the Persian Gulf to the 
provinces of the north had the instinct of birds 
of passage for the straight line. Judith will 
remember till she dies that long, swift journey 
to the ancient capital of Iran — the wonderful 
Nisf-i Jahan, or “ Half the World,” as it was 
called in the days when Shah Abbas the Great 
ruled with a rod of iron over the Eastern 
world. Each day’s journey in the large post- 
carriage drawn by four lean, galloping horses, 
took them farther into the south. The earth 
became darker, the grass greener, gardens and 
orchards took on deeper hues and a hazy light 
205 


20 6 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


spread a soft glow over the landscape. They 
galloped through tiny villages set in vineyards, 
they camped at noon under gigantic plane- 
trees, and halted for the night at mud caravan- 
serais, where, after the hard day’s journey in 
the stimulating air, they slept undisturbed by 
the moaning and bubbling of camels, the 
familiarities of caravan dogs, or the attacks 
of relentless insects. 

They were able to reel off the miles as no 
native traveler ever thinks of doing, for their 
way was cleared before them and their wheels 
oiled by the outrider Nusr-ed-Deen sent 
ahead. At each rest-house fresh horses awaited 
them; arrangements for food and fodder had 
been made; and there was no delay and no 
discomfort that could be avoided by careful 
forethought. And yet Judy’s face began to 
show traces of the mental and physical strain 
she suffered long before the journey was half 
accomplished. Her mood of exhilaration was 
succeeded by a determination that kept her 
tense and feverish, to reach Persepolis be- 


ON THE ROAD TO ISFAHAN 207 


fore Wolkonsky or his agents could do so, to 
find the plans or defend their hiding place, 
and thus to save the day that had been almost 
lost through what she called her fault. Fast 
as they traveled, for her the pace was never 
fast enough. Time after time Jaggard had to 
remind her that sitting on the edge of the car- 
riage seat, with her hands clenched and her 
eyes straining ahead, did not help the horses 
and used up her own strength. With a long 
sigh she would settle herself more comfortably 
in her corner of the post-carriage and make 
Jaggard go over again his calculations con- 
cerning the number of days it should take for 
her lost packet to reach Wolkonsky’s hands, 
supposing him to be in Teheran. 

The result of this calculation always seemed 
to give her new strength, for Jaggard declared 
that unless some accident happened to them on 
the road they would roll into Isfahan before 
Wolkonsky could possibly reach there. 

“Of course,” Judith always finished up 
these discussions, “we are taking it for granted 


208 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


that he or Miss Arlundsen can make out the 
cipher, which is impossible.” 

“Then why are you racing down there to 
forestall him?” 

“It isn’t because I haven’t faith in our 
cipher!” she would cry, “but because I’ve 
begun to learn that in this game you can never 
take anything for granted. I lost my map be- 
cause I took Miss Arlundsen’s honesty for 
granted, and I ’m not going to make another 
mistake for the same reason.” 

“You’ve got the right idea,” said Jaggard. 
“You’re learning the game! What if you 
should find Savidge Sahib waiting for you in 
Isfahan?” 

Her eyes widened and glowed. “Why, 
then,” she said, simply, “ everything would be 
all right!” 

A curious, bleak look came into Jaggard’s 
face, as if, homeless and solitary, he had 
glanced through a window and caught a 
glimpse of another man’s lighted hearth. But 
his voice was almost as blithe as ever when he 


ON THE ROAD TO ISFAHAN 209 


said: “Well, whether he’s there or not, I’d 
back you to a showdown. You’re game, all 
the time.” 

As the heat increased they traveled often 
at night, when the moon was full and the sky 
glowed as with white fire and the plane-trees 
splashed inky shadows across the trail. There 
was an enchantment about these night jour- 
neys that lifted them into the realm of the 
unreal and fantastic. The faint sound of 
approaching camel-bells became full of an 
uncanny suggestion; and the sight of the 
shaggy beasts swinging along through the 
ghostly light sent a shiver up the spine, as if 
one had seen the Great Sphinx nod in the 
moonlight. These were the only hours of the 
journey when Judy was able to forget her 
troubles, in the beauty and the mystery of the 
ancient land. Wrapped in rugs and huddled 
in the corner of the carriage, she often fell 
into a half drowse, in which the world seemed 
to stream past her like a pale, luminous sea. 
Once she awoke suddenly after an uneasy 


210 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


sleep, to see a line of camels drifting silently 
past, black and weird against the rising moon. 

Jaggard, too, was watching the curious 
sight. “ And on Broadway the shows are over 
and they’re making for the lobster palaces,” 
was his comment. 

“And they call it life!” Judy added scorn- 
fully. 

All the years when she had lived in a bronze 
cage in the overheated air of the Great South- 
ern were now a part of another woman’s 
existence. She could not make even the 
stories she had dreamed and written seem real, 
as they had one time been real to her. It 
seemed as if for years she had been riding on 
horseback or in a post-carriage, desperately 
trying to gain some point that lay always 
miles ahead of her. But in spite of the fatigue 
and the unreality of that strange, flying jour- 
ney, there was one reality she never lost sight 
of: she had failed in a trust, and that failure 
had to be retrieved. 

They rested a night in Hamadan and were 


ON THE ROAD TO ISFAHAN 21 1 


off at dawn next day with never a desire on 
Judy’s part to lose an hour in the bazaars of 
the rare old town that poets have sung. The 
necessities of the occasion were calling out in 
her a stern, practical power of concentration 
that was stronger even than her imagination 
or her love of the picturesque. 

On the morning of the twelfth day from 
Tabriz they threaded their way through the 
maze of walled vineyards, gardens, and blos- 
som-laden orchards that ring Isfahan with 
riotous color and at a distance resemble the 
variegated pattern of a carpet from the looms 
of Khorasan. Back of the city rose a range 
of serrated hills garbed in the velvety verdure 
of spring, and against a sky of flawless azure 
bubbled the turquoise domes of the mosques. 
Judith looked down on the town and caught 
her breath. Of all the cities of Persia Isfahan 
is the most beautiful in a garish way. She is 
the Painted Lady among the cities of the East, 
powdered, rouged, and bedizened, reeking of 
musk and patchouli, tricked out in tinsel and 


212 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


spangles, roses in her tawny hair and poppies 
flaming on her breast. Whether seen from 
the plains or the hills, from the bridges over 
the Zendah Rud or the Meidan in the heart 
of the city, the capital of Shah Abbas the 
Great is a vision that will never fade from the 
eyes. She is beautiful and superficial and 
untrustworthy and the center of idleness and 
intrigue. 

Before noon they had passed into the city. 
They drove at once to the bazaars flanking the 
Meidan and forced their way through the 
press of camels, porters, buyers, and sellers. 
Judy had no eyes for what under other cir- 
cumstances would have been an enchanted 
scene. The booths with their brocaded goods, 
saddlery, weapons and armor, lacquered ware 
and brass, had no attraction for her now; the 
rattle and beat of the coppersmith’s mallet and 
the brassworker’s hammer fell on heedless 
ears. She bade Hassan take them at once to a 


caravanserai. 


ON THE ROAD TO ISFAHAN 213 


As soon as a little of the dust of travel had 
been removed, Judy, accompanied by Jag- 
gard, set out for the telegraph office. They 
crossed the magnificent Meidan-i-Shah, or 
Imperial Square, level and smooth as a bil- 
liard table; rounded the Nakarah Khanah, the 
band towers from which a fanfare of trum- 
pets and a roll of kettle-drums accompany the 
rising and the setting of the sun ; and entered 
the Chahar Bagh, the Avenue of the Four 
Gardens, which is the Champs Elysees of 
Isfahan. Jaggard, familiar with the street, 
stopped before a low plaster building, the 
color of which suggested to Judy a well-made 
tomato soup. The dome was threaded with 
black wires and out of the open doors came 
the drowsy sound of telegraph instruments. 
Across the avenue, under a sycamore tree, 
lounged a native letter-writer, his utensils laid 
neatly on an ochre-colored cloth. By his side 
were the kalemdan, or reed-holder, and sev- 
eral rolls of paper. He seemed to be asleep, 


214 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


but a close observer would have noticed that 
under his half-closed eyelids he watched every 
movement of the two farangi as they entered 
the office. 

In the vernacular Jaggard asked the oper- 
ator, who was a fine, melancholy-browed 
young Persian, if there was a telegram for 
Mrs. Savidge. The operator looked through 
his file, flashed his white teeth in a smile, and 
answered that there had been a telegram for 
Mrs. Savidge, which that lady had called for, 
received and carried away with her two hours 
before. 

“What? Say that again!” Jaggard snapped. 

The man repeated his statement, this time 
in broken English. Judy’s hands flew to her 
heart. 

“What does he mean?” she gasped. 

Jaggard’s thumbs mechanically sought the 
edge of his trousers pocket; he struck his habit- 
ual attitude, feet far apart, his head and 
shoulders thrust forward. For a full minute 
he studied the man before him. Then he 


ON THE ROAD TO ISFAHAN 215 


leaned forward across the barrier that 
stretched between the inner and outer rooms. 

“Now, my friend,” he said, crisply, “let’s 
understand each other. You say a wire came 
for Mrs. John Savidge, that Mrs. Savidge 
called for and received it two hours ago. 
Have I got that straight?” 

The operator politely made it clear that this 
was the exact situation. 

“Very well, then; describe this Mrs. Sav- 
idge — in English, please.” 

The man made a gesture of vast admira- 
tion. Shorn of much hyperbole, his reply 
indicated that Mrs. Savidge was tall, stately 
as the young sarv tree, with eyes like the 
winter sky and hair the color of ripe wheat. 
The operator was eloquent and manifestly 
honest. 

“You should be a novelist, my son,” Jag- 
gard interrupted him dryly, “for as a tele- 
graph operator you’re punk! You’ve given 
the message to the wrong lady. This is the 
real Mrs. Savidge.” 


2l6 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


The operator looked limp, and Judy went 
white to the lips. 

“Who got it, then?” she whispered. “It 
couldn’t be — ” 

“Lina? Surest thing you know! But 
where did she pass us? We left her in Tabriz 
. . . but that doesn’t matter now.” He 
turned to the operator. “ See here, my friend, 
you’ve made a mistake, and the best thing 
you can do now is to give Mrs. Savidge a 
duplicate of that wire. Then everything will 
be agreeable all around, and we’ll overlook 
the incident, see?” 

The operator shook his head firmly. Jag- 
gard tried persuasion and threats. The man 
became moist and mournful, but he remained 
loyal to the rules of the company. Even the 
high sign of the brotherhood of the key had 
no power to move him. And at last they left 
him unwillingly. 

Once more in the street, they looked at 
each other. Jaggard’s wrinkled face was 
tragically humorous, but Judy could not have 


ON THE ROAD TO ISFAHAN 217 


forced a smile had her life depended on it. 
She felt benumbed by the blow. It seemed 
an extraordinarily cruel prank of luck that 
lost her this message she had been hoping for 
every mile on the long road from Tabriz. 
Intuition told her the wire was from Savidge 
— probably a direction in their cipher or 
code. If in the code, it would be no good to 
Miss Arlundsen; but what was of greater mo- 
ment, its loss meant to Judith continued 
ignorance of her husband’s whereabouts, and 
left her in a state of nerve-racking uncertainty. 

“ If I only knew where he is or what he 
would have me do!” she cried, twisting her 
hands together. 

Jaggard took her firmly by the arm and 
turned her face towards the Meidan. “ If he 
were here he’d make you rest, that’s sure. 
And that’s what you’ve got to do. We’re 
going back to the caravanserai, and while you 
lie down I ’m going to circulate around a bit.” 

They retraced their steps along the tree- 
embowered avenue. The letter-writer gath- 


218 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


ered up the implements of his craft, slung the 
cloth over his shoulder and followed at a dis- 
creet distance. They crossed the Meidan, 
shouldered their way through the crowded 
bazaars and reached the comparative seclu- 
sion of the bala-khanah. Jaggard extracted 
a promise from Judy that she would rest, and 
left her. 

She threw herself down on her rugs and 
tried not to think of her disappointment; but 
in spite of herself her mind circled around 
and around the problem of what she ought 
to do next. Hassan brought her a cup of 
tea. She was drinking it sitting, a forlorn 
little person, on the corner of her rugs, when 
she heard the click of Jaggard’s heels coming 
down the corridor. Mingling with them 
sounded the patter of native sandals. The 
instant he entered the bala-khanah Judith 
knew by her friend’s face that his spirits had 
risen. 

“ Say,” he began, “ there ’s a native letter- 
writer out here that wants to write for the 


ON THE ROAD TO ISFAHAN 219 


Memsahib. Will you let him come in?” 

“But I have no one to write to I” she pro- 
tested. “ And I ’m too tired. Send him away, 
please.” 

“You might send a letter to Gholam Rezah, 
just a polite note to let him know you’ve got 
here safely,” Jaggard persisted. 

He looked over his shoulder. The letter- 
writer was not visible, but his shadow fell 
over the threshold. “The fellow is so deter- 
mined to see you I think he’s got something 
to say. You’d better let him come in and 
see what comes of it.” 

Jaggard stepped to the door and beckoned 
to the letter-writer, who at once appeared on 
the threshold. He salaamed low and mur- 
mured something in the vernacular, which 
Jaggard interpreted. 

“ He wants to know if the lady whose love- 
liness shames the moon on the 14th night and 
puts the stars to flight will honor her servant. 
He’s a very learned chap, says he can write 
in Persian, Arabic, and French.” 


220 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


“As I don’t know any of those languages, 
you must dictate for me,” Judy laughed. 

Jaggard nodded to the letter-writer, who 
dropped on his knees, spread out his cloth, and 
laid on it several rolls of snowy rice paper 
and the kalemdan, an oblong box with a con- 
vex top, exquisitely inlaid with mother-of- 
pearl. Out of this box he took a small brass 
inkstand, a stick of sealing-wax, and a reed 
pen. Holding the paper on the palm of his 
left hand, he dipped the pen into the ink. 

“I don’t sling much of a style,” said Jag- 
gard, “but here goes: To Aga Gholam Re- 
zah, Greeting: We have come down as far 
as Isfahan, making the journey in twelve days 
without incident. The arrangements at the 
post-houses were satisfactory, and we had no 
trouble about the horses . Is that too fast for 
you?” 

The hand of the letter-writer flew over the 
paper lightly, writing from right to left diag- 
onally across the paper. When he had done 
he looked carefully about the bala-khanah . 


ON THE ROAD TO ISFAHAN 221 


Then he spoke in a low voice, in clearly enun- 
ciated English: 

“ Is it by any chance that this letter goes 
to Aga Gholam Rezah of Tabriz ?” 

Jaggard gave no outward sign of surprise. 
“To Gholam Rezah of Tabriz. You know 
of him?” 

“Assuredly,” answered the letter-writer. 
“Who else in all Persia is better known than 
Gholam Rezah? We come from the same 
birthplace, he and I.” He looked at Judy 
with his bright brown eyes. “We are of 
Mazanderan, Memsahib.” 

Judy started at the word and leaned for- 
ward. “ I have heard that in Mazanderan 
they have many proverbs — ” 

The letter-writer took the words out of her 
mouth. “We of that province have a prov- 
erb — perhaps the Memsahib has heard of it? 
We say that the jackal that lives in the wilds 
of Mazanderan can only be caught by the 
hounds of Mazanderan.” 

“I have heard it,” answered Judy. “It 


222 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


was in the house of Gholam Rezah.” 

“ It is well said. Then I am to tell you 
that he has left Isfahan, and gone south.” 

“He? Whom do you mean?” 

The letter-writer rose to his feet, slipped 
noiselessly to the doorway, and glanced up 
and down the corridor. He came closer to 
Judy as he replied: “I was to tell you that 
the man you fear has gone south.” 

“Wolkonsky?” she whispered. 

The letter-writer nodded. 

“Is this true?” demanded Jaggard, fixing 
the native with his keen glance. 

“All the world may tell lies,” answered 
the letter-writer, simply, “but when did 
Gholam Rezah ever betray his friends?” 

“True; that is all true. And it does not 
profit anyone to lie to the friends of Gholam 
Rezah.” 

“ Did I not know the proverb that Gholam 
Rezah gave to the Memsahib?” 

Jaggard nodded. “These are matters that 
cannot be left to chance, my brother.” 


ON THE ROAD TO ISFAHAN 223 


“Assuredly. The hired servants of Russia 
are everywhere. On every hand is intrigue. 
Even the court of Teheran is in league with 
the Czar. But this is not for long. There 
are brave men ready to lay down their lives 
for the Cause. They are only waiting for the 
signal. When that is given they will rise and 
Persia will be free. I, too, am a patriot. That 
is why I am here to help the friends of 
Gholam Rezah, but if it should be known 
what I have just said, my life would be for- 
feited. I might eat again, but not twice!” 

“Enough, brother!” said Jaggard. “You 
are no letter-writer of the bazaars.” 

“ Before entering the Cause under Gholam 
Rezah I sought instruction at the Gates of 
Learning in many lands — at Heidelberg, at 
Oxford, and at your own Yale. Before Persia 
can be free her young men must have knowl- 
edge of the world.” 

Jaggard grasped his hand. “I can’t give 
you any of the High Signs, brother, for I 
never rode the frat goat; but you’re all wool 


224 


THE BEAR'S CLAWS 


and a yard wide! What is the rest of this 
tale?” 

The letter-writer moved nearer. “ Four 
days ago I received word from Gholam 
Rezah. I was charged to watch in Isfahan 
until you came. He sent word also that Wol- 
konsky had been in Tabriz — with the woman. 
You understand?” 

“In Tabriz! With Miss Arlundsen!” 
gasped Judy. “When?” 

“Wolkonsky was in Tabriz even on the 
day you arrived there. The tall woman went 
at once to him in the house of Salar-ed-Ali. 
They had a long conference. That night, the 
night you were in the house of Gholam Rezah, 
Wolkonsky left for the South. Rezah did not 
know of these things until you had gone.” 

“And the woman?” 

“The woman remained until the next day. 
You left Tabriz the seventh hour after sun- 
rise. On the ninth hour the woman followed 
by post-carriage.” 


ON THE ROAD TO ISFAHAN 225 


“Then she was behind us all the way!” 
cried Judy. Jaggard nodded as if confirming 
his own judgment. 

“ She was behind you until the fifth hour 
after sunset of yesterday. You stopped at the 
rest-house for the night. She changed horses 
there at midnight and came on to Isfahan.” 

Jaggard’s face wrinkled with cunning. 
“ How is it, brother, you know these things 
that happened on the road?” 

The letter-writer gave no sign of resent- 
ment. “These things, and many more also, 
are known to me because of what I have said. 
Think you, Sahib, that the word cannot be 
passed other than on the wings of lightning? 
The Cause is no small thing, Sahib. In every 
province, in every city and town, even in the 
rest-houses along the way, men are banded 
together to bring this thing about. They have 
their own way of knowing one another, and 
their own way of passing the word.” 

A shadow of a smile flickered over the 


226 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


dark, thin face. “Is it beyond the Sahib’s 
belief that the drivers of the post-carriage 
might also be of the Cause?” 

Jaggard grinned. “The game is well 
played, brother,” he said, heartily. “ I was 
at fault. Go on.” 

“ Here in Isfahan, Wolkonsky was at the 
caravanserai when the woman arrived this 
morning before dawn. They had much talk. 
What the talk was is not known to me, for 
the corridor outside the bala-khanah was 
guarded and my men could not get near. 
Once they summoned the na’ib — he is also of 
the Cause — and he reported that they studied 
maps and papers. He could learn no more.” 

Judy shot a meaningful glance at Jaggard. 
“Yes — go on!” he said. 

“ On the second hour after sunrise this morn- 
ing the woman went to the telegraph station. 
I myself followed her. She received a tele- 
gram and returned to the bala-khanah . An 
hour later the Russian and two men left the 
caravanserai. They rode over the Zendah 


ON THE ROAD TO ISFAHAN 227 


Rud, through Julfa, and followed the caravan 
road to the south. That is all.” 

“But what of the woman?” asked Jaggard. 

“The woman is in Isfahan.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“ Memsahib, a mouse could not creep out 
of Isfahan today without my knowledge! 
The city is surrounded by men of the Cause. 
It is the order of Aga Rezah.” 

Jaggard turned to Judy. “The thing’s as 
plain as the nose on my face. They’ve drawn 
cards, and it’s up to us to boost the pot and 
start the ball to rolling.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“ I mean just this : the Lina woman has read 
your cipher!” 

The world seemed slipping from under 
Judy’s feet. Her face was haggard and the 
corners of her mouth twitched pitifully. The 
letter-writer, with the tact of the Oriental, 
moved towards the door. 

“I can’t believe it!” she whispered. “No 
one in the world could read that cipher!” 


228 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


“ Mrs. Savidge,” Jaggard said, quietly, “we 
have n’t any time to waste in talk. Wolkonsky 
has got your papers and map and he’s on his 
way to find your husband’s plans. You 
haven’t told me where they’re hidden, but 
I’m ready to gamble they’re south of here. 
Wolkonsky was headed south two hours after 
sunrise this morning. What’s the answer? 
They’ve read your cipher, and you’ll have to 
admit it.” 

“But I tell you they couldn’t!” Judy per- 
sisted frantically. “No one could read it 
without the key-word.” 

“Then they’ve got the key-word.” He be- 
gan walking up and down the bala-khanah . 
As he walked he absently took a coin from his 
pocket and it began slipping like a live thing 
in and out between his incredible fingers. 

“Look here,” he said at last. “I haven’t 
butted into your business, have I? I haven’t 
asked a single question and I don’t intend to. 
But you’re out here alone and up against it, 
and, by gad! I’m going to help you. Now 


ON THE ROAD TO ISFAHAN 229 


listen: Lina Arlundsen is onto your cipher. 
Why did Wolkonsky leave for the South as 
soon as he had his confab with the Arlundsen 
woman in Tabriz? Because he had the trans- 
lation of your cipher. Why did he leave 
Isfahan this morning? Because the woman 
translated your husband’s telegram for him. 
It’s as plain as two and two make four.” 

He stopped in his walk and faced her. “ I 
know something about ciphers, Mrs. Savidge. 
I ’ve collected a lot of queer ones in my trav- 
els. You say yours can be read by means of 
the key-word?” 

Judy nodded. 

“You use figures — two figures to repre- 
sent each letter?” 

“Yes.” 

“I know that cipher — the Nihilists of 
Russia use it and it’s the greatest one ever 
invented. You’re right — it can only be read 
with the key-word.” 

“I knew I was right!” Judy began, 
triumphantly. 


230 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


“Wait! What’s to prevent a person from 
finding out the key-word?” 

“Impossible! Think of all the words in 
the language! Think of the difficulty of hit- 
ting on the right word among thousands!” 

“ Ordinarily, yes. In this case, no. I ’ll bet 
I can read your cipher, Mrs. Savidge.” 

She defied him with her indignant eyes to 
prove his assertion. He smiled back at her 
good-naturedly. 

“Let me see . . . you were married just 
before you came abroad. Then you were on 
your honeymoon when your husband taught 
you this cipher, weren’t you?” 

“Really, I don’t see what my private af- 
fairs have to do with this business!” 

The wrinkles gathered under Jaggard’s 
eyes. “Your private affairs have everything 
to do with it. I ’ve told you before that guess- 
ing is my business. Well, I ’m going to make 
another guess, it’s only a guess, mind you, so 
you mustn’t take exception to what I say. 
I ’m going to guess that a man that is just mar- 


ON THE ROAD TO ISFAHAN 231 


ried, and who is very much in love with his 
wife, would n’t have to bone a dictionary for 
a key-word to fit his cipher. Is n’t that reason- 
able?” 

Judy colored and admitted it was very 
reasonable. 

“ I don’t think he’d look in a book for that 
word,” Jaggard went on imperturbably. 
“ And I reckon Lina Arlundsen doped it out 
the same way.” 

“You think — ” 

“ I think that Judith is a very pretty name! 
Miss Arlundsen thinks so too. In fact, she 
told me so that day in the bala-khanah when 
I asked her for your papers. I didn’t think 
much about it at the time, but a good guesser 
goes back and picks up every straw. I know 
now that the minute the Arlundsen woman 
heard your name, she decided to see if that 
key would unlock your cipher. Do you see? ” 

Judy’s eyes were round with astonishment 
and dark with fear. “And she succeeded! 
What will she do now?” 


232 


THE BEAR'S CLAWS 


“ She’ll stay here to spy on you and prevent 
any communication between you and your 
husband, if she can. In the meantime Wol- 
konsky is going south — where, I don’t know.” 

“To Persepolis,” she said, under her 
breath. 

“And no one knows where John Savidge is. 
But there’s no use waiting for him, he’ll take 
care of himself. There’s no use waiting here 
for orders, for they’ve got it framed up 
against you. My advice is to try to beat him 
to it. Gholam Rezah ’s offered you an escort; 
why not hit the trail? I’d like a chance at 
that cute Russian myself — for Lina’s sake.” 

“Call the letter-writer in,” was Judy’s 
answer. 

The somber-eyed Persian came back. Jag- 
gard glanced into the corridor for a possible 
eavesdropper. It was empty except for Has- 
san, who sat smoking, wrapped in his burnous, 
just beyond the door. 

“ In the message that Gholam Rezah sent 


ON THE ROAD TO ISFAHAN 233 


you, was there any news of Savidge Sahib?” 
Judy asked the letter-writer. 

The man bowed. “ I was to tell you that 
Gholam Rezah sent word to Savidge Sahib 
of your loss, and of your journey south. Also 
I was to tell you to expect the release of Sav- 
idge Sahib soon.” 

Judy’s face brightened somewhat at this. 
By comparing dates with the native they came 
to the conclusion that Rezah had sent his mes- 
sage to the letter-writer about five days after 
they left Tabriz. In the week that had 
elapsed since then, the prophecy of Rezah 
might have come true. There was every prob- 
ability that Savidge was on his way to Isfa- 
han and Persepolis at the moment they stood 
discussing his movements. And also, it was 
much more certain that Wolkonsky was speed- 
ing nearer to Persepolis with every minute 
they wasted. 

“ These men that Gholam Rezah has 
promised me in case I go south — can they 


234 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


fight?” Judy suddenly turned upon the letter- 
writer. 

A cryptic smile lighted the face of the na- 
tive. “ Memsahib, Gholam Rezah has sent 
out the word that we are to spare nothing, 
neither money nor lives, if necessary, to aid 
the thing that Savidge Sahib is trying to bring 
about.” 

Judith turned to Jaggard. “How many 
men should we need?” 

“ I should say not more than two. The 
lighter we travel the faster.” 

Judith’s eyes gleamed. “Yes, yes, we must 
travel as fast as possible. How long will it 
take to get the horses ready?” 

The letter- writer held up a dissuading 
hand. It would be better to leave Isfahan 
after dark, just before the moon rose. The 
Memsahib should eat and rest before the 
journey. At the second hour after sunset 
horses and men would be ready beyond the 
south wall of the bazaars, and a rider would 


ON THE ROAD TO ISFAHAN 235 


be sent ahead to arrange for fresh horses at 
each stage. 

Foosteps sounded along the corridor and 
the letter-writer dropped to his knees before 
the inkstand. Jaggard made a pretense of 
going on with the dictation. Judith stepped 
outside into the gallery to think. As she stood 
looking down into the courtyard a fanfare 
of trumpets sounded from the Nakarah 
Khanah. The brazen sound was like a call 
to battle. Judith shivered as she listened. 
Then she went back into the bala-khanah and 
spoke to the letter-writer. 

“ If Savidge Sahib passes through Isfahan,” 
she said, “ you are to tell him that I have gone 
to the Lost City. To the Lost City, you under- 
stand? And that I am not afraid.” 

The letter-writer bowed. “ He shall receive 
the very word, Memsahib, that you are not 
afraid.” 


CHAPTER XII 

THE TELLER OF TALES 

O N the second morning after Judy and her 
escort had crossed the Zendah Rud and 
galloped down the ancient caravan 
route to the south, a man tall and gaunt of 
face, mounted on a handsome bay stallion, 
rode slowly into Isfahan. The horse was 
jaded, the drooping head and quivering nos- 
trils denoting long and hard riding; and the 
broad-sleeved abba of brown, which the rider 
wore over a tight-fitting undergarment of 
bright yellow that reached to the knees like 
a surplice, was powdered with dust. The tall 
red fez was improvised into a turban by means 
of strands of white cloth bound round the 
head, the white folds contrasting saliently with 
the sunburnt brown of the rider’s face. In 
the center of his forehead was a scar, white 
as bone — the mark of the Bagdad “date.” 

236 


THE TELLER OF TALES 


237 


Although he rebuked a beggar that clawed 
at his stirrup, in the argot of the bazaars, his 
eyes did not play their part so well. Of a cool, 
clear, hazel-gray, they were not characteristic 
of the Orient, and the crow’s-feet at their cor- 
ners gave them a quizzical effect that is never 
seen in the men of the East. Neither did he 
ride as the men of the desert ride. In the 
length of the stirrup, in the way he gripped 
the leather with thighs rather than with knees, 
and in the careless, half lounging yet secure 
seat, there was a suggestion of the American 
cowboy. An almost imperceptible slope to 
the left shoulder accentuated the awkwardness 
of his carriage, but whether his horse trotted 
or galloped, the man’s seat was as square and 
solid as his hand on the rein was light and 
firm. 

Entering the city from the north, he forced 
his way through the press of the bazaars to 
the caravanserai. Leaving his horse in charge 
of the na’ib, he made his way down one of the 
tortuous streets on the east of the Meidan, a 


238 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


street so narrow that he could have touched 
with outstretched arms the houses on each 
side. The dingy, crowding walls were cor- 
belled out so that the projecting eaves of the 
flat roofs almost touched overhead, filling the 
narrow passageway with a cool, crepuscular 
light, as if the city had been concealed in an 
oubliette of titanic trees. 

He stopped before a house whose window, 
set high up in the wall, was covered with an 
iron grating. The low, narrow door was 
studded with brass nails. He was ushered 
into a long room opening on an inner court- 
yard where a tiled fountain was playing in the 
sunshine. In the center of this room a man 
wearing a tarboosh and horn spectacles sat 
cross-legged on a handsome rug before a low 
table covered with writing materials. The 
tall man in Arab garments left his slippers 
at the door and made a profound salaam. 
The Persian rose to his feet and returned the 
salutation. 


THE TELLER OF TALES 


239 


“ S abb ah-ak Allah bil khayt — [Allah give 
thee good-morning]!” he said. 

“ Peace be unto thee, man of letters,” re- 
turned the other, gravely. 

Then in English: “ That’s one on you, 
Nadir Shah! Set them up, you old repro- 
bate! I haven’t had a drink or a decent 
smoke since I left Tiflis!” 

The Persian snatched off his spectacles, and 
the frown of bewilderment was followed by a 
smile of welcome that lighted up the somber 
face and brooding eyes. 

“Savidge Sahib!” he exclaimed, softly. 
“What is predestined, that must needs be! 
Thou hast come in good time!” 

They shook hands in the manner of the 
West. The Persian’s eyes took in every de- 
tail of the disguise. “ I was expecting thee,” 
he said, in his own tongue, “but not in this 
favor. Beyond question thou art a merchant 
of Bagdad! It is wonderful! That scar — it 
would pass thee into the shrine of Husein at 


240 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


Kerbela. Aie! I know of but one in all Per- 
sia that could render such good account of the 
orpiment and walnut juice.” 

Savidge nodded. “ It was he, Mehomet 
Hassan Khan, in the shop of the Sunnee bar- 
ber at Enzeli. No one in the East has such 
dye for the face.” 

“Nali kadeem est! He has none of the 
newfangled dyes that fade in a day or a week. 
Who should know that better than I, who 
have been hunted from Mazanderan to the 
Gulf?” 

“ I also have had occasion to test his dyes — 
when a blotched skin would have meant a 
knife from ear to ear.” Savidge shrugged his 
shoulders and dropped on the rug beside 
Nadir Shah’s table. “I’m hungry, thirsty, 
and dying for a smoke, and you’re the only 
man in Persia civilized enough to drink 
brandy-and-soda. Do you still import Henry 
Clays?” 

An attendant brought refreshments, and 
Savidge, sitting cross-legged like a native, ate 


THE TELLER OF TALES 


241 


and rapidly sketched for Nadir Shah the inci- 
dents of his release from official clutches in 
Tiflis through the influence of Gholam Rezah. 
One of Rezah’s men had brought him word 
of Judy’s loss; and from that moment he had 
spared neither himself nor his horses. The 
ride south had been, as he put it, an unholy 
scramble. From Tiflis he had gone to Baku 
by rail, and from Baku across the Caspian to 
Enzeli, where a heavy fog had kept them from 
landing for half a day. He had been followed 
to Enzeli by two of Wolkonsky’s men. He 
was sure of that. So he had gone to the shop 
of the Sunnee barber and had come forth an 
Arab merchant, walking under the eyes of the 
Russian’s men without arousing suspicion. 
From Enzeli he rode to Kasvin, and then to 
Hamadan, traveling most of the way by night. 
A day’s ride from Isfahan he had met the 
word going north that the Memsahib and her 
escort had left Isfahan and were trailing Wol- 
konsky to the south. The news had aroused 
him to new effort, and with the aid of the men 


242 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


of the Cause, who had kept him supplied with 
good horses, he had made Isfahan in five days. 

“ And now, brother,” he concluded, lighting 
a cigar from the box that Nadir Shah opened 
with a solemnity amounting almost to prayer, 
and heaving a long sigh of contentment as he 
blew a cloud of smoke to the arabesqued ceil- 
ing, “what has befallen while I have been on 
the road? I was told by one at Sultanabad 
that you would have news for me.” 

Nadir Shah told his story simply, without 
any of the embellishments dear to the heart of 
the flowery Persian. He told how Gholam 
Rezah had charged him to engage horses and 
men and to spare neither lives nor money to 
further the Sahib and the Memsahib on their 
way; how in the guise of a letter-writer he had 
watched the bazaars for Wolkonsky, and how 
he had haunted the sycamore tree opposite the 
telegraph office waiting for the Memsahib. 

Savidge listened impassively, smoking his 
cigar in silence. “Good business,” he said, 
when Nadir had finished. “One thing have 


THE TELLER OF TALES 


243 


I learned in the East — when in trouble go to 
Gholam Rezah, and to the house of Nadir 
Shah.” 

The Persian’s face flushed darkly. “ Cheezi 
nist, it is nothing!” he exclaimed. “But 
Gholam Rezah, ah! Sahib, that is right. 
Gholam Rezah knows everything, and nothing 
is too great for him to do for a friend.” 

“Thou also, Nadir Shah.” 

“Thou and he are not little people, Savidge 
Sahib. What I have done is for the honor of 
my house.” 

“ I know,” said Savidge. “ But the demands 
of friendship are heavy. I still have need of 
thee, brother.” 

“Thou hast only to ask and it is done.” 

“I am sure of that, Nadir Shah. I have 
come to thy house as a merchant of Bagdad. 
But it will not be wise to ride alone to the 
south as a trafficker in merchandise. So I 
shall go forth as Abd-al-Malik, a teller of 
tales. I shall have need of simpler clothes.” 

“ It shall be as the Sahib wishes. But is it 


244 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


good that he ride alone? The South is a rough 
and hostile country, and the Bakhtiari would 
plunder their kinsmen’s graves.” 

Savidge smiled and reminded his host that 
he had not known him as the merchant of 
Bagdad; was it likely they would know the 
teller of tales? “Remember,” he added, “I 
have journeyed to Herat and to Mecca and 
have worshipped in the mosques of Meshed. 
I know all the genuflexions and can pray the 
five prayers of the faithful.” 

“Assuredly thou art one of us, Savidge 
Sahib.” 

Savidge watched a smoke ring whirl to the 
ceiling. “ I used to be more Mohammedan 
than Christian for a fact,” he mused. “ Queer, 
though, how a chap changes as he grows older. 
Do you know, a year ago I thought I never 
could go back to the desperately dull routine 
of civilized life — you know, they haven’t 
learned how to live in my country. It’s only 
here in the East that you fellows with money 
understand that life is a fine art. Up there in 


THE TELLER OF TALES 


245 


Tiflis I had lots of time to think about things, 
and I was lonesome, mighty lonesome. Never 
felt that way before! And I got to figuring 
how having a home in a clean, safe place 
might have its advantages after all.” 

Nadir Shah smiled. “We Persians have a 
proverb: ‘Only he that is without a wife or 
has many wives, rides far into the desert!’” 

“That hits home all right,” admitted Sav- 
idge. “To tell the truth, my friend, I’m 
losing my nerve.” 

The Persian raised his eyebrows incredu- 
lously. “Savidge Sahib afraid? That is 
what your compatriots would call — ah, yes — 
funny!” 

“Funny or not, it’s a fact. When that 
gauzy old boat got lost in the fog off Enzeli 
I began to wonder if I’d ever reach land 
again ; and all the way down here I rode with 
a heavy hand on the curb for fear the horse 
would stumble and I’d break my neck!” 

“And yet thou art going into the South 
alone.” 


246 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


“ That’s a part of the game. I can play it 
better alone,” Savidge rejoined, simply. “A 
wandering teller of tales arouses no suspicion. 
Believe me, brother, it is the best way.” 

“But the Bakhtiari — what can you do 
against them alone?” 

“They will welcome me to their fires. 
The name of Abd-al-Malik is not altogether 
unknown in the South. They will remember 
his tales of Alf Laylah wa Laylali .” 

There was a dreamy expression in the eyes 
that watched the blue smoke curling up from 
the cigar. “You should see them, Nadir 
Shah — the old men wagging their beards and 
the women cackling over the adventures of the 
Porter of Bagdad or the story of the Wazir’s 
son and the Bath-keeper’s wife. You know 
those yarns — the rarest of all the Nights? 
I ’ve told them all over the East. And they ’ve 
got me food and a blanket to sleep on in many 
a camp where a white man would have his 
throat cut on sight. I shall never forget those 
wonderful nights. So long as I live the bitter 


THE TELLER OF TALES 


247 


smoke will be in my nostrils and I shall see 
the light of the fires flickering on their dark 
faces. Allah has been very good to me, Nadir 
Shah. I have lived! ” 

“ And when the game is played, Sahib?” 

The lean outlander shrugged his shoulders 
and spread his hands, palm upward, in a 
depreciatory gesture. 

“Who knows?” he answered. “I’m a 
good enough Moslem to believe in Kismet. 
What will be will be, and I ’m content that 
it is so. I’ve played the game for the sake 
of the game, for the glory of doing good 
work and knowing that it was good. If I 
win, the men of my profession will say the 
work ’s not half bad, and that ’s reward enough 
for this world. But win or lose, the great 
captains that have put up the money will fold 
their hands over their fat paunches and haggle 
over the expense account.” 

He finished his cigar in silence and rose 
lazily to his feet. “ So she told you to tell 
me she wasn’t afraid — eh?” 


248 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


Nadir Shah nodded assent. “ Such was the 
Memsahib’s command.” 

“Good girl!” muttered the other under 
his breath. “ I knew she had it in her, from 
the first.” He turned to his host. “How’s 
that for pluck, Nadir Shah?” 

The Persian smiled cryptically and put his 
hand on his friend’s arm. “Assuredly,” he 
said, “a man might ride far into the desert 
with such a woman.” 

“And for such a woman, eh, my friend?” 

“Such is the custom of the Sahibs, I be- 
lieve. And when does Abd-al-Malik ride to 
the south?” 

“At sunset. They have two days the start 
of me, but I ’ll catch them before they get to 
Pasagardae if the horses hold out.” 

“ Have no fear of the horses, Sahib. Word 
has been sent out by Gholam Rezah all along 
the road. The men of the Cause are behind 
you in this thing. We play different games 
to the same end — the clipping of the Bear’s 
claws — the Russian Bear.” 


THE TELLER OF TALES 


249 


“ It is so. And the game is drawing to an 
end for me. Down there in the South is the 
man that Persia should most fear, the man 
that will bring your country under the Czar’s 
scepter if any one man can. I’ve got him 
where I want him now, down there in the des- 
ert, and it’ll be a man’s fight this time, face to 
face, with no Cossacks or magistrates or laws 
to help him. He has had everything his own 
way so far, but I ’m figuring I ’ll have some- 
thing to say down there in the Lost Cities. 
Well, I shall need a little sleep if I get out 
at sunset. Will you see about the clothes for 
the teller of tales, Nadir, and get me another 
horse? I shall have to ride like the Prophet 
before tomorrow morning!” 

The Persian nodded slowly. “ Everything 
will be in readiness an hour before sunset, and 
Allah speed you, Savidge Sahib!” 

Three days later Abd-al-Malik, a teller of 
tales from Bagdad, rode across the plain of 
Murghab. Between him and the purple circle 
of hills lay mile after mile of plain, silent, 


250 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


desolate, oppressive: withering under a brazen 
sun. In the heat of the hour before noon his 
horse’s head dropped and he himself sat 
wearily in his saddle, the white sand dust 
from the desert caking in the perspiration of 
his face. Barren of tree or shrub the desert 
spun out around him to a point where a soli- 
tary shaft of stone reared itself towards the 
sun. 

This was not the first time he had seen this 
shaft; but never before had the tremendous 
and significant loneliness of the thing struck 
him so sharply. In this desert over which it 
watched, once stood Pasagardae, the seat of 
kings. The sands had long since swallowed 
palaces and streets, but this solitary megalith 
remained, forever announcing to the jackals 
and the stars : “ I am Cyrus the King.” 

Tossing the bridle over his horse’s head so 
that it trailed on the ground, Abd-al-Malik 
stretched himself out in the shadow of the 
rock. The horse, left to himself, nibbled the 


THE TELLER OF TALES 


251 


scanty herbage of the desert, but did not stray 
far from his master. The man slept for four 
hours. When he awoke, the sun was sloping 
to the west and the broken top of the megalith 
glowed a dull red. 

The teller of tales rose lazily from the 
ground, yawned, and stretched himself. Then 
he took from the saddle-horn a water-skin and 
from the saddle-bag a piece of sandjiak and 
some date paste. As he ate this frugal meal 
he sat at the foot of the shaft and talked to 
the horse, which came nuzzling and sniffing 
at the breast of the gray abba. Cranes with 
flamingo crests stalked in the dry reeds nearby; 
and overhead the sinister black of buzzards 
was silhouetted against the brilliant blue of 
the sky. The teller of tales glanced from the 
circling buzzards to certain rings of black- 
ened sand that were scattered about the foot 
of the megalith. 

“Bakhtiari, I should say, Billy,” he re- 
marked aloud. “ We’re in their country. 


252 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


Those fires haven’t been cold more than 
twenty-four hours. We’ll go on when I’ve 
eaten this sandjiak, old boy.” 

Resting on an elbow he contemplated the 
black stone of the megalith and discoursed to 
Billy on the mutability of kings. Like many 
men that are taciturn among their fellows, 
Savidge could be whimsically loquacious 
when alone; and by the simple expedient of 
postulating privity and percipience on the 
part of an animal he could banter many a 
black hour away. In point of fact, this men- 
tal exercise operates on the principle of a 
safety valve, and men that are much alone in 
the wide spaces of the world soon learn to 
recognize it as such and to cultivate it as a 
gift tossed down from the gods to keep the 
mind wholesome and sane. 

“He was a great man and a great king, 
Billy, this Cyrus, the Achaemenian. But, like 
a great many big men, he lost his head over 
a woman. That’s a joke, Billy, though you 
won’t see it any more than Cyrus did. The 


THE TELLER OF TALES 


253 


lady’s name was Tomyris, Billy; she was the 
first suffragette in history. She came down 
here with an army, lopped off Cyrus’s head, 
and sent it home to his folks in a wine-skin 
filled with blood. Fact, Billy! I can imagine 
her passing by here and looking up scornful- 
like at Cyrus’s stony boast. That inscription is 
all right as far as it goes, but down here at the 
bottom he should have put — well, I’ll be 
damned!” 

Savidge started forward and examined the 
second stone of the shaft. Underneath the 
cuneiform inscription : “ I am Cyrus the King, 
the Achaemenian,” was a row of figures 
freshly scratched on the face of the ancient 
rock; and below these was scrawled faintly 
the single word “ Judy.” 

For the first few seconds he could only stand 
staring at that one little word. Then his mind 
leaped at the row of figures. It was a fragment 
written in their cipher, with more than one 
mistake, as if the writer had scratched down 
the words in desperate haste. 


254 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


“Captured . . . Bakhtiar ...” was all; 
but Savidge felt as if the story of what had 
happened on this spot was blazoned to the last 
detail on the surface of the rock. 

For a long minute he stood staring at the 
cipher and the one faint little word, so fixed 
and motionless that the horse pricked its ears 
forward and in turn stood still. 

“ Billy,” said the man at last, softly, “we’ve 
got work to do, you and I.” 

He patted the horse’s neck and breathed 
into its nostrils. The horse whinnied as the 
man tightened its girths. 

“It’s up to you, old boy,” he said, as he 
sprang into the saddle. 


CHAPTER XIII 


THE LOST CITY 

B ILLY raised his head, mumbled his bit, 
and drew a long, nostril-quivering 
breath. Savidge chirruped, and the 
horse struck into the easy lope that horses of 
the East as well as the West can maintain 
from sun-up to sun-down. 

At first the road stretched like a thread 
across a treeless plain as level as the sea and 
flanked with purple-looming hills. Then it 
ascended gradually for miles, until it entered 
a mountain pass. By this time the sun was 
behind the mountains and the horse had to 
pick his way carefully in the uncertain light. 
Then the moon, almost at her full, rose and 
dropped a silver-white drapery on the moun- 
tain walls. In places the trail was so narrow 
that Savidge could look into the fathomless 
255 


2 56 


THE BEAKS CLAWS 


gloom of the gorge below, a gloom untouched 
by the moon. Then the road descended, 
twisting through craggy defiles, crossing the 
turbulent Polvar on a narrow causeway hewn 
through solid limestone rock, winding through 
a series of ravines, diving into a succession of 
valleys, and eventually debouching into the 
Plain of Mervdasht. The moon now rode 
high in the heavens, the cloudless sky glowed 
with a brilliant, incandescent fire, and the 
huddled shadow of horse and rider bobbed 
fantastically on the saffron-colored floor of 
the level plain. Far ahead, several points of 
light began to twinkle through the gloom. 

“ We’re almost there, Billy,” said Savidge, 
drawing the horse down to a walk and pat- 
ting him on the neck. “If the stars haven’t 
lied to us, she’s over yonder by those fires. 
Understand, Billy? She’s there — Judy, the 
only Judy!” 

Billy nodded his head sympathetically. 
The man went on: “I’ll tell you a secret, 
Billy, if you’ll promise not to give me away.” 


THE LOST CITY 


257 


Billy promised with his ears. “Old fellow, 
I want to see her more than I want any- 
thing in this world or the next! Funny, isn’t 
it? That little slip of a girl, with her steady 
eyes, and her face that lights up as if it had a 
flame behind it, and her quick little brain, 
and her way of taking orders like a soldier!” 

Something black scuttled across the trail, 
and Billy stopped dead in his tracks. Savidge, 
sitting loosely in his saddle, peered forward to 
where the dancing fire-points glimmered like 
glow-worms against a velvety curtain. The 
night wind rustled silkily through the grasses, 
and there floated to his ears the ululant plaint 
of jackals and the obscene laugh of hyenas. 

As they plodded on through the night, the 
dancing fire-points grew larger and larger; 
they glowed through the gloom like the ends 
of lighted cigars; they became bobbing lan- 
terns; and eventually they materialized into 
camp-fires. Straining his eyes through the 
uncertain light, Savidge could make out a 
village of tents, inky blotches in the moon- 


258 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


light, and above the plain, a huge black bulk 
floating uncannily in a sea of amber mist. It 
was like the sudden apparition of a great ship 
out of a fog. 

“The rock tombs of Naksh-i-Rustam,” mut- 
tered Savidge. “ I might have guessed they’d 
camp there; Billy, old boy, it looks as if we’d 
got to the journey’s end. If there ’s any magic 
in the yarns of Sindbad, you’ll fare royally 
for the rest of the night. And I — Billy, you 
know what your namesake said — ‘Journeys 
end in lovers meeting, as every wise man’s 
son doth know’ ! Never heard of it, eh? 
Billy, I ’m ashamed of you ! You ’ve neglected 
the higher side of your nature! I suppose 
you’d rather munch hay than metaphysics, 
and bolt a bolus of oats than Fletcherize a cud 
of poetic thought!” 

And so he rode through the dark, with a 
whimsey on his lips, as he had ridden many 
times in other years on long and lonely jour- 
neys through the sinister places of earth. 
There was a lilt in his heart that never before 


THE LOST CITY 


259 


had companioned him in adventure or on 
quest. As with all men that have to do with 
big things, his moments of supreme attain- 
ment had been sad; but on this night, as he 
faced the most desperate situation of his 
career, he was buoyant as a boy, recklessly 
and riotously happy. 

He was carrying on a quixotic dialogue 
with his horse, and riding carelessly, when, as 
if they had materialized out of the night air, 
two figures loomed up at Billy’s head. Their 
hands gripped the bridle rein, and Savidge 
looked down into the muzzle of a long gun 
that appeared particularly sinister in the 
moonlight. 

“ Pidar sokhtah!” [son of a burnt father] a 
guttural voice cried. “Get down and sur- 
render!” 

“ I am in your hands, brothers,” said Sav- 
idge, calmly, making no movement in the 
saddle. 

“Art thou a kafir [unbeliever]?” asked a 


voice. 


26 o 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


“ A wandering teller of tales, and a hadji 
of Bagdad, thanks to Allah, the merciful and 
compassionate.” 

There was an instant’s silence in which it 
was evident that the two outposts looked at 
each other as if in uncertainty whether this 
night-rider spoke the truth. At last one of 
them said: 

“ In the name of Allah, thou art welcome, 
O teller of tales, and hadji of Bagdad. But 
what brings thee beyond the borders of Far- 
sistan?” 

“ Much travel is needed to ripen a man, 
brother!” 

“True, O teller of tales. But also it is true 
that he who has seen the world tells many a 
lie!” 

“Thou art wise, brother; and it may be 
that thou hast heard of Abd-al-Malik. I 
bring the latest gossip of the bazaars of Bag- 
dad and Isfahan!” 

A second pause of consideration. Then: 

“Thou art welcome to the camp of Amir 


THE LOST CITY 


261 


Mujahid. Pass on, brother, and may thy nose 
never lose its fat nor thy shadow its bulk, 
Tomorrow, please Allah, we shall hear thy 
tales.” 

The Bakhtiari disappeared as mysteriously 
as they had appeared, and Savidge, dismount- 
ing and leading his horse, picked his way 
towards the flickering fires of the camp. He 
could hear ahead of him the faint sound of 
voices, and, halting for a moment to listen, 
he would have taken his oath that he heard a 
word or two of English. A few rods farther 
on he stopped again, this time in some amaze- 
ment, for there came to his ears a dry and 
nasal chuckle. The chuckle was followed by 
a voice — an unmistakably American voice — 
discoursing in fluent Persian, liberally inter- 
larded with American slang. A clump of 
dwarfed trees blocked all sight of what was 
going on in front of him, but upon flanking 
this obstruction, Savidge had a clear view of 
the nomad camp. 

A dozen scattered fires threw fantastic shad- 


262 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


ows upon a huge, scarped wall of stone that 
heaved itself out of the earth and in the moon- 
light appeared to tower up to the very stars — 
the great rocky cliff of Naksh-i-Rustam, in 
the bosom of which are hewn the sepulchers 
of the Achaemenian kings. The flames lighted, 
up the base of the rock and flickered on the 
huge bas-reliefs of men and beasts, until they 
appeared to quiver and grin as if they were 
about to be warmed out of their stone sleep. 

But Savidge, standing in the thick, soft 
shadows of the night, had no eyes for the 
tombs of once puissant kings, or for the tower- 
ing cliff swathed in moonlight. His gaze 
was riveted on a scene as strange as any he 
could have evoked from the pages of the 
Thousand and One Nights. In the center of 
a broad circle of silent Bakhtiari, stood Judy, 
the lights of the flickering fires falling on her 
face. Her eyes were following the movements 
of a solidly built man with a pumpkin-shaped 
head, who, coat off and sleeves rolled above 
the elbow, stood haranguing his audience con- 


THE LOST CITY 


263 


cerning the merits of an old-fashioned, muz- 
zle-loading pistol that lay on his palm. Ex- 
cept for his surroundings, he might have been 
the conventional magician spell-binding his 
audience with the usual magician’s patter. 
And Judy might have been his assistant, the 
pretty little lady that allows herself to be 
bound with a few miles of tape and sealed 
in the inviolable cabinet at the climax of the 
show. But the stage-setting and the audience 
had a certain quality that gave to the per- 
formance a grim and fantastic touch. The 
magician was plainly working with a little 
more than his usual professional zest, the 
audience was listening and watching a little 
too intently, and the eyes of the assisting lady 
were a little too strained and bright. 

Savidge left his horse in the shadows at the 
lower end of the cliff and began to move 
towards the lighted circle. He had heard 
his coming announced from outpost to outpost. 
At any other time he would have been wel- 
comed with acclaim, but now, as he joined 


264 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


the outer ring of onlookers, only one or two 
turned to look at him. The majority of them 
were too much absorbed in the drama of the 
night to do more than lift their eyes for an 
instant to the new arrival’s face. Then they 
turned again to their rapt scrutiny of the 
two figures in the center of the stage. On one 
man only did his appearance have any effect. 
As he passed into the radius of the firelight, 
a tall Arab lounging in the shadow of the 
cliff rose softly to his feet, his somber black 
eyes gleaming with a sudden excitement. 

Savidge began to move unobtrusively 
around the circle until he reached a point 
not far from where Judy was standing. He 
then saw that between the magician and his 
assistant was a little heap of paraphernalia — 
the usual magician’s accessories. The enter- 
tainment had evidently been going on for 
some time, and the audience had reached the 
point where they hung between scoffing deri- 
sion and superstitious awe. 

“So that’s Jaggard,” Savidge thought. 


THE LOST CITY 


265 


“Well, he’s got nerve and he’s clever, but 
I’m afraid he’s bucking against the wrong 
gang if he thinks he can get away from the 
Bakhtiari by magic, unless he’s got a miracle 
up his sleeve.” 

But it would seem that Jaggard had no mis- 
givings. He put one thumb in a trouser 
pocket, and leaned forward from the hips, the 
pistol held out to the scrutiny of his audience. 

“O men of the Bakhtiari!” he said, gran- 
diloquently, “what I have shown you is but 
child’s play compared with the next number 
on the program. I am come but lately from 
sitting at the feet of the great lamas of Thibet. 
By certain deeds I acquired merit and favor 
in their eyes, and in return they bestowed upon 
me a marvelous gift. This gift, O men of the 
Bakhtiari, I shall deign to exhibit before your 
unworthy eyes, that you may learn what I am, 
and treat me as becomes my rank.” 

“ So sounds the wind when it blows through 
the dry reeds! ” sneered a voice from the outer 
circle. A pock-marked, fanatical, and alto- 


266 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


gether unpleasant nomad stood staring skep- 
tically over the shoulders of his companions. 
Jaggard disregarded the interruption serenely. 

“This gift, O benighted children of the 
desert, is no other than the gift of invulner- 
ability. Possessed of it as I am, no bullet can 
harm me. The best shot among you may 
shoot at me — but he cannot kill me!” 

“Assuredly thou art a jinn or an afrit that 
thou canst do such a thing!” mocked the dis- 
gruntled skeptic from the outer circle. 

Jaggard wheeled towards the voice sharply. 
“Nay, brother! Nor a ghoul nor a cat-headed 
man with horns and hoofs — such as thou art 
afraid of when alone after dark!” 

A hoot of laughter greeted this remark, for 
Jaggard, hitting out at the superstitious traits 
of the Bakhtiari in general, had landed neatly 
on the well-known weakness of this particular 
member of their band. The man’s face dark- 
ened angrily at the too intimate banter of his 
neighbors, and he moved away, muttering a 
“ Bismillah!” to frighten off any demons that 


THE LOST CITY 


267 


might be lurking in the haunted demesne be- 
yond the fire. As he flung himself angrily 
away from the circle he ran plump into the 
Arab that had been lounging in the shadow of 
the cliff. 

“ Gently, brother!” said the Arab. 

“Thou art the servant of the farangi!” ex- 
claimed the tribesman. “Tell him that I, 
Mohammed Ali, have sworn by the Blessed 
Prophet to kill him before the dawn! ” 

He disappeared into the darkness, mutter- 
ing threats, and the tall Arab worked his way 
around the ring of swarthy spectators until he 
stood pressed close to the elbow of the teller 
of tales. 

“Sahib?” 

“Hassan!” The teller of tales did not 
move his head, and his voice was lower than 
a whisper. In the laughter that followed 
another of Jaggard’s sallies Hassan murmured 
the threat of Mohammed Ali. 

“We must get away tonight,” said Savidge, 
scarcely moving his lips in shaping the words. 


268 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


“ Can you get the horses?” 

“Yes, Sahib!” 

“ Have them ready at the lower end of the 
cliff, where the fire-altars are. Wait there.” 

“Till the Sahib comes. I understand.” 

“ Good! Don’t go yet. Wait your time. . . . 
By my eyes, O pupil of the lamas! it is a 
bullet! ” 

This remark was addressed to Jaggard, who 
stood before the teller of tales, holding a 
round black ball between his finger and 
thumb. 

“ Better examine it and make sure,” urged 
the magician. “ It might be a div [demon] 
in disguise, and carry you off!” 

Again the tribesmen gave way to laughter, 
and Hassan took advantage of the diversion 
to slip away. A snake could not have wrig- 
gled through the grasses more noiselessly. 

“ May I be stung by a scorpion of Kashan 
if it be not as thou hast said — a bullet,” re- 
peated the teller of tales, after a grave and 
prolonged scrutiny of the object. “ It is 


THE LOST CITY 


269 


such a one as I have seen many times at the 
Capital.” 

“ Then, O traveler, take thy knife and mark 
the bullet, that thou mayst know it again.” 

The Bakhtiari crowded around Abd-al- 
Malik, the teller of tales, as he marked with 
his knife a cross on the bullet. 

“ It is done, worker of wonders,” he said. 

“ Good! Now drop the bullet into the pis- 
tol, which thy neighbor has loaded with a 
double charge of powder. That’s right. 
Here is a rod. Ram it down well so that 
the powder will kick. Thou art sure the bul- 
let is in the gun, brother?” 

“As I am a hadji and an honest man, the 
bullet is in the gun!” 

“And thou, O benighted children of the 
desert, hast thou seen the gun loaded and the 
charge rammed down?” 

The tribesmen made a hoarse sound of 
assent. There could be no doubt that the 
magician had the full attention of his audi- 
ence. He swaggered across the firelit space 


270 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


and flippantly took the old-fashioned pistol 
from a tribesman’s hands. Unshaven, un- 
washed, his clothes begrimed with the dust 
and stains of travel, he was still Tom Jag- 
gard at his best — suave, insolently serene, and 
entirely the master of the moment. 

“Gad! I’m beginning to like you, Jag- 
gard! ” Savidge thought. “ But you ’re in the 
tightest box I ever saw. What next?” 

By this time J aggard had stepped once more 
to the center of the stage. “O men of the 
Bakhtiari!” he cried, spinning the pistol 
around his amazing fingers, “ I have a talis- 
man more powerful than the knucklebone of 
the wolf or the eyeball of the weasel.” He 
held the pistol on the palm of his outstretched 
hand. “ I defy the best shot among the Bakh- 
tiari to kill me!” 

A sharp murmur and movement of excite- 
ment ran among the audience, and Savidge 
heard his wife give a smothered gasp of fear. 
Jaggard, still keeping up his patter, stepped 
closer to Judy. 


THE LOST CITY 


271 


“Don’t be scared, little girl!” Savidge 
heard him say. “ I ’ve got the bullet out of the 
pistol. They can shoot till morning and not 
hurt me. When I give the signal drop the 
handkerchief — you understand?” 

He took from his pocket a red silk handker- 
chief and thrust it into her unwilling hands. 

“Oh, don’t risk it!” she whispered. “Isn’t 
there some other way?” 

“Got to risk it,” Jaggard returned. “The 
trick will work, and they’ll take me for Aura- 
madzu, Junior! Remember, Persepolis is 
only six miles away. You want to get there, 
don’t you?” 

“Yes! But I can’t let you risk your life!” 

“Oh, cut out the worry, little girl! Keep 
your eyes on the Professor and drop the hand- 
kerchief when I say three!” 

He stepped back again to the center of the 
ring of watching faces. Savidge edged his 
way into the front row. He stood now within 
six feet of Judy, who kept her eyes fixed des- 
perately on Jaggard. He could see that she 


272 


THE BEARS CLAWS 


was white to the lips, and the hand nearest 
him kept opening and closing nervously. 
Jaggard looked once at her, and then he 
repeated his challenge, twirling the pistol 
provocatively. 

For a moment no one moved. Then out 
of the shadows swaggered the pock-marked 
tribesman, Mohammed Ali, pistol in hand. 
But before he had time to utter a word, the 
teller of tales sprang past Judy and strode 
into the center of the ring, exclaiming: 

“ I will kill you!” 

He heard Judy give a little cry of terror 
behind him. “All right, Judy!” Jaggard 
sang out. Then he handed the pistol promptly 
to the teller of tales. 

“ So you want to kill me, my friend?” 

Abd-al-Malik nodded gravely. “It is a 
good pistol. I will shoot at you and I will 
kill you, if your talisman does not work.” 

“All right, brother! Aim straight at the 
heart. When the farangi woman drops the 
handkerchief, fire!” 


THE LOST CITY 


273 


Jaggard walked a few paces away and faced 
the teller of tales. Savidge aimed the pistol 
deliberately at the magician’s breast. 

“One!” Jaggard’s resonant voice boomed 
through the night. 

“Two!” He stood erect and folded his 
arms, with a mocking smile on his face. The 
teller of tales squinted along the barrel, which 
was as fixed as if jawed in a vise. 

After an interval measurable by centuries, 
Jaggard called out “Three!” and the hand- 
kerchief fluttered from Judy’s hand to the 
ground. 

There was a flash, followed by an ear-split- 
ting report. Judy closed her eyes tight and 
swayed like a flower in the wind. But there 
came a shout of guttural laughter, cries of 
“Ba! Ba!” and “Ahif Shahbash !” 

Her eyes opened in spite of herself. In 
front of her was the teller of tales, his lean 
face thrust forward, the smoking pistol in 
his hand; and a few paces away stood Jag- 
gard, a black bullet nipped between his bared 


274 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


teeth! The firelight fell on the round red 
face covered with a scraggly beard, on the lips 
stretched into an inhuman grin, on the bullet 
between the teeth — and he looked for all the 
world like a leering gargoyle. But as he 
stood there looking at Judy he did something 
that gargoyles never do — he slowly and sol- 
emnly winked his left eye. 

Her taut nerves gave way. Softly but hys- 
terically she began to laugh, even as the tears 
ran down her face. 

Jaggard spat the bullet from his mouth and 
it fell to his feet. The teller of tales hastened 
forward and as he stooped to pick it up he 
said in a low voice: “I’m Savidge. If any- 
thing happens, make for the end of the cliff.” 
He walked over to one of the fires and gravely 
examined the bullet. Then he turned to the 
Bakhtiari. 

“ Assuredly the farangi is a worker of mira- 
cles ! ” he cried. “ On my word as a hadji and 
an honest man, this is the very bullet! ” 

The tribesmen pressed about him. The 


THE LOST CITY 


275 


marked bullet flew from hand to hand. Un- 
doubtedly it was the very one they had seen 
put into the pistol and rammed down. Their 
faces were full of superstitious awe; the whites 
of their eyes gleamed in the firelight. An odd 
thrill that was half fear and half wonder ran 
through the crowd. Some of them refused to 
touch the miraculous bullet, and there were 
many “ Bismillahs!” muttered into wagging 
beards. 

Jaggard’s face was complacent, but his eyes 
were gleaming watchfully as he looked into 
the crowding faces. Mohammed Ali had 
strode into the firelight, a sneering smile on 
his pock-marked face. He held a pistol in his 
hand. 

“ Assuredly thou art a great magician to 
have done this thing,” he began. “ I, too, 
would test the Sahib’s powers.” 

“Thy bullet could not touch me, brother,” 
replied Jaggard, calmly. 

“ Thou needst have no fear, since thou hast 
a talisman to ward off bullets!” 


276 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


“ I have no fear, brother — for myself, but 
for another !” 

“Then, in the name of the Blessed Prophet, 
I shall shoot !” 

Jaggard held up a warning hand. “ O fool- 
ish one! By the talisman I possess I can turn 
a bullet from its course and send it back into 
the body of him that shoots at me!” 

There was a stir of wonder among the Bakh- 
tiari at this announcement. But Mohammed 
Ali, fearful though he might be of afrits and 
the unseen powers of darkness, had little belief 
in a farangi magician. 

“The true believer cannot be harmed by a 
dog of a farangi!” he said, with dignity. 

“Thou hast seen what a farangi can do?” 

“ I have seen the Sahib’s pistol and the 
Sahib’s bullet!” 

“Was not the pistol fairly loaded with 
powder and the bullet rammed home?” 

“ Even so it appeared to the eyes, Sahib.” 

“ And did not the hadji shoot straight to the 
heart?” 


THE LOST CITY 


277 


“ If it be that he is a hadji! Is it not said 
of the jackal that he dipped himself in indigo 
and thought he was the peacock?” 

Abd-al-Malik, the teller of tales, sprang 
forward. “Dog of a Bakhtiari!” he snarled. 
“ Son of a burnt father! Thou art a liar and 
the offspring of liars! May a curse fall upon 
thy house! ” 

Mohammed Ali jerked up his long-barreled 
pistol, but before he could finger the trigger, 
Savidge hit him fairly between the eyes. The 
tribesman fell like a log, but the body had 
not struck the ground before Jaggard dashed 
through the circle of bewildered Bakhtiari 
and disappeared into the night. Then there 
was a rush of feet, a babel of hoarse cries, and 
a scattering fire of musketry as the Bakhtiari 
followed in pursuit. 

In thirty seconds the camp was deserted. 
There remained only the teller of tales and 
Judy, who stood as if rooted to the spot, strain- 
ing her ears to catch the sounds of pursuit 
that grew fainter and fainter. 


278 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


“Judy!” The teller of tales spoke under 
his breath. 

She did not catch the word, but she met his 
eyes fully — the gray, un-Oriental eyes, with 
their shrewd, deep twinkle. As she looked 
into them they grew very tender — and she 
faltered towards him with outstretched hands. 

A moment later they were running side 
by side through the dark towards the black 
bulk of the cliff. Behind them and to their 
left they could hear the sound of shooting 
and an occasional shout, as the angry tribe 
searched for the invulnerable pupil of the 
lamas. Jaggard had evidently led the chase 
away from the cliff, for when they reached 
the fire-altars, at the end of the cliff, Has- 
san alone stood by the horses. He led for- 
ward Judy’s horse and Savidge swung her 
into the saddle. During their run through 
the dark they had not exchanged a word. 
From the instant when Judy recognized her 
husband and their hands met over the nomads’ 
fire, there had been no word between them 


THE LOST CITY 


279 


after her first startled cry, except: “ Are you 
all right, Judy?” and “Yes — yes! I’m all 
right!” 

But now as he swung her up to the saddle 
she clung to him for an instant, and he heard 
her say: “ Oh, I ’m so glad — so glad!” And 
in the darkness she brushed his cheek with her 
lips. 

It seemed to him that flowers must be grow- 
ing somewhere near; the stars seemed to 
swing down in a radiance of white fire; and 
in that crowded instant John Savidge proved 
himself capable of the divine madness of the 
true lover. For with the sounds of pursuit 
growing louder, and the pounding of run- 
ning feet coming nearer, he snatched his wife 
from the saddle, swung her down to his breast, 
and held her close, while he told her that he 
loved her, loved her; that she was dearer to 
him than anything else in all the wide world. 

Then he put her back into the saddle and 
mounted his own horse. They sat with tight- 
ened rein, waiting. The noise of shouting 


28 o 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


and running came nearer; they saw figures 
darting between them and the distant camp- 
fires, and in a moment Jaggard rounded the 
end of the cliff, running low, with the fleetest 
of his pursuers not more than a hundred yards 
behind him. He flung himself on the horse 
Hassan held for him, with a grim chuckle as 
he gasped: 

“We’d better go while the going’s good! 
There’s about a million of ’em scouring the 
cliff!” 

“Keep close to me,” Savidge said to Judy. 
“Never mind the reins — just hang on. Your 
horse will follow mine.” 

In silence they streamed out across the plain. 
The wind whistled about their ears. The dry 
sand flew behind their horses’ hoofs; and they 
had not gone far when a bullet zinged uncom- 
fortably close to Hassan’s head. 

“They’ve taken horse, Sahib!” he called. 

For half an hour the Bakhtiari followed; 
but the sound of pursuit grew gradually 
fainter; an hour before dawn the noises died 


THE LOST CITY 


281 


away entirely, and the horses were pulled 
down to a walk. 

“ They’ve given it up for the night,” Sav- 
idge said, “but they’ll be on the trail again 
in the morning. They would track a man 
for a week if they thought he had a dozen 
kran in his pockets.” 

For a mile or two farther the jaded horses 
plodded along together. Then something 
squat and black glowed against the sky, and 
it was thus that Judy came upon the Lost City 

— under the magic of the moon and the stars. 
She saw it for the first time, vast, void, and 
still, just as Savidge had described it that 
day in the bronze cage on the mezzanine floor 

— the colossal flight of steps sweeping up to 
the great stone platform, the moonlight throw- 
ing fantastic shadows on the ruins of palaces 
and temples, the outlandish columns black 
against the stars. It lay in a welter of silence, 
the heavy, oppressive silence that falls upon 
the world just before the dawn — a city whose 
heart had ceased to beat centuries before. 


282 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


By the time they reached the great stone 
stairway the fire had gone out of the stars, 
the moon had become weazened and gray, and 
a red glare shot up behind the hills that form 
the eastern bulwark of the Dead City. The 
dawn-wind was bitterly cold. They rode up 
the stone stairway, more than two hundred 
steps, with an angle so gentle that it was like 
riding up the slope of a low hill, and dis- 
mounted in the lee of a ruined temple. 

Savidge wrapped Judy in his blankets and 
bade her wait while he and Hassan went at 
once to the place where he had left his survey- 
maps. Jaggard unsaddled the horses and 
found a sheltered spot for them; and Judy 
was left to herself. She sat huddled in a 
corner of a great ruined doorway of black 
basalt, carved with curious angular figures 
of beasts and men, and watched the desert and 
the gray ruins turn to an iridescent wonder 
under the rising sun. So this, at last, was the 
Lost City towards which her desires had 
run; this was the goal of adventure she had 


THE LOST CITY 


283 


dreamed of; this was a page from one of her 
own stories. And yet, all she could think of 
was John Savidge and his maps. He had dis- 
appeared between the forelegs of an enormous 
winged bull; all she could look at was this 
black aperture that had swallowed him up; 
and the one emotion she was susceptible of just 
then was fear of what she should see in his 
face when he came back. She knew she 
should be able to tell at once whether he had 
found the precious papers undisturbed, or 
gone. 

“If they are lost,” she thought, “I shall 
want to die. It will be the worst moment of 
my life.” 

So she sat with her eyes on the winged bull, 
blind to the enchantment of a gorgeous sun- 
rise that was turning the Lost City to a city of 
gold. Jaggard passed her, foraging for some- 
thing with which to make a breakfast fire, but 
she paid no heed to him. She sat motionless, 
until beyond the opening between the bull’s 
legs she saw a movement. Then she rose to 


284 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


her feet. Savidge came out into the daylight 
alone. He walked with his head a little bent, 
slowly, as if he was tired. The harsh sunlight 
brought out the crow’s-feet about his eyes and 
the touches of gray on his temples. 

She knew that they had lost, that the game 
was going against them ; but in this moment 
the thing that hurt her was the drag of his 
feet, the tired droop of his shoulders. It 
seemed as if she realized for the first time how 
hard he had worked and fought, all his life. 
An exquisite sense of pity and tenderness was 
born in her heart. She began to walk quickly 
towards him, between the rows of ruined col- 
umns that had once been the palace of Xerxes. 

When he saw her coming, he straightened 
his shoulders and smiled cheerfully. “Well, 
they’re gone, Judy! Someone has been here 
— not longer ago than yesterday, by the signs.” 

She put out her hand and touched his 
breast. “Ah, my dear! my dear! It is my 
fault! I’ve lost you the game! I’ve — ” 

She turned away and hid her face against 


THE LOST CITY 


285 


a column, trying to control the quivering of 
her lips. 

“Why, Judy! dear little girl! look here, 
you mustn’t blame yourself. It’s all in the 
game. The thing might have happened to 
me!” 

“No — no!” she sobbed. “I was stupid! 
I ’ve been a handicap to you ! I ’ve f-f-f ailed.” 

With a swift lighting up of his whole face, 
he interrupted these self-reproaches in the 
only right and authentic way: he gathered 
her into his arms with authority and a great 
tenderness. 

“Hush! Judy! You mustn’t say you’ve 
failed. Why, don’t you know, you silly little 
person, that I’m happier this minute with 
your head right there, than I’ve ever been 
in my life before? I’ve lost a set of maps 
down here, but I ’ve found something worth 
more than all the maps in the world — you! 
If it hadn’t been for the maps I might never 
have found you, Judy, little wife!” 

A woman never really loves a man till she 


286 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


has wept in his arms. For Judy the greatest 
love story in the world began at the moment 
when she could not find her handkerchief and 
had to wipe her eyes on a sleeve of the gray 
abba. The sun climbed higher and fell warm 
against the pillars of Xerxes’s palace. Jag- 
gard straightened up from a small fire among 
the stones of a neighboring ruin and surveyed 
with a tolerant grin two telltale shadows that 
had fallen for some time across the floor of 
the palace of Xerxes. 

“Breakfast is now ready in the dining-car, 
last car to the rear!” he boomed. And the 
two shadows hastily kissed once more and 
came out from behind the pillar, hand in hand. 


CHAPTER XIV 

“ I WAS A KING IN BABYLON ” 

T HEY had breakfast among the ruins of 
the Palace of Xerxes, among fragments 
of fluted columns and tumble-down 
doorways through which the envoys of tribu- 
tary nations once marched in gorgeous proces- 
sion, bearing gifts to the great king; among 
sculptured panels and slabs that had taken an 
army to hoist into position ; among shattered 
friezes and tablets strewn about the stylobate 
whereon the “king of kings” reared his man- 
sion of marble and stone. On every hand were 
ruin and decay. Ravens croaked in the de- 
serted palaces, and a kite poised over the City 
that Was. They sat on a stone tablet carved 
with a cuneiform inscription, and ate their 
meal of sandjiak and tea above a legend that 
ran : “lam Xerxes, the Great King, the King 
287 


288 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


of Kings, King of the Nations with their many 
peoples, King of this great earth, even to 
afar! ” 

“ People are like frogs in a puddle,” ob- 
served Jaggard ; “ you can catch ’em and throw 
’em back and catch ’em again. Old Xerxes 
used to sit on his peacock throne and hook 
’em; and now the Czar’s got out his little rod 
and line. You’d think they would get tired 
of it, but they keep on nibbling at the bait.” 

Savidge nodded absently. He was going 
over in his mind their position and his chances 
of recovering the stolen maps. He was the 
only one of the party that had either food or 
arms. In their flight from the Bakhtiari, 
everything Judy and her escort possessed had 
been left behind. There was food enough to 
last the four of them a day, with economy. 
The question of rations was not serious, for 
six miles to the south of them was a tiny 
chapar-khanah; but there was another aspect 
to the situation that was not so cheerful. With 
the brightening of the dawn a wind had risen. 


“I WAS A KING IN BABYLON” 289 


It was now swooping up from the south in 
spirals of sand, and it had completely obliter- 
ated every mark by which they might trace 
Wolkonsky in his flight from the Lost City. 

“ Could n’t we start on and trust to luck to 
hit his trail?” Judy asked. 

Savidge shook his head. “The horses need 
rest. We might be able to travel for another 
twelve hours, but the horses couldn’t, without 
rest. And do you see those sand-devils? The 
whole surface of the plain of Mervdasht 
has shifted over-night. The keenest Siberian 
bloodhound couldn’t nose a trail a yard away 
from the Grand Staircase. You see we don’t 
know which way Wolkonsky ’s headed. He 
may have gone north to Isfahan or south to 
Shiraz, intending to work around by the Per- 
sian Gulf and the Arabian Sea. He may have 
gone straight east, intending to make Teheran 
by the way of Yedz, or he may have gone 
west to Bushire. It’s a pretty big country, 
you see; and a chap can drop out of sight a 
lot easier than at home, where the telephone 


290 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


or telegraph can pick him up almost any- 
where.” 

“Then what can we do?” she cried. 

Savidge looked with a smile at the little 
figure perched on the carved tablet of Xerxes. 
Dusty, sunburnt, in a flannel shirt, with her 
hair in a heavy schoolgirl braid, and a faded 
silk handkerchief knotted about her throat, 
she had never looked so pretty to him. For 
in spite of the fatigue and lack of sleep, she 
was dauntlessly ready to go anywhere and do 
anything that he said. She was very tired, but 
there was a valiant spirit in every line of her. 

“We’ll take it easy during the heat of the 
day/’ he replied. “ Late in the afternoon we’ll 
start for Shiraz. There we can get into com- 
munication with Gholam Rezah or Nadir 
Shah. They ’ll find out quickly enough where 
Wolkonsky is, and then we can set out on his 
trail.” 

“Couldn’t you appeal to the American 
Minister at Teheran?” 

Savidge laughed his mirthless laugh. “ My 


I WAS A KING IN BABYLON ” 291 


dear girl, the American Minister at Teheran 
is about as important as the secretary of a 
Chamber of Commerce. The real power in 
Persia is the Russian Minister. No; all we 
can do just now is to trust to the men of the 
Cause. If Wolkonsky gets to Teheran first, 
there’ll be about as much show of getting 
those maps back as there is of getting ice- 
cream cones over there in the Hall of a Hun- 
dred Columns!” 

Judy wrung her hands together. “John! 
There’s something else — what became of 
those papers you were carrying from the East- 
ern Securities Company? Has he got those, 
too?” 

“ He has those, too!” 

Judy made a gesture of utter despair. 
“Then we’ve lost the whole game! The 
maps are gone, and he knows the amount of 
the Company’s bid — everything!” 

Savidge’s eyes began to twinkle. He looked 
at her with a boyish and irresponsible grin. 
“You know, Judy,” he drawled, “I’ve a 


292 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


sneaking idea Wolkonsky doesn’t know he’s 
carrying the Company’s papers!” 

“John!” she gasped, and backed away 
from him as if she thought he was losing his 
mind. “What do you mean?” 

But he refused to answer. He only laughed 
and put his arm about her shoulders. “ Come 
along, and let’s forget the whole blame thing 
for an hour. Let’s pretend we’re tourists 
doing Persepolis. I’ll be the special con- 
ductor and you ’ll be the tourist ; come along ! ” 

She saw that he wanted to forget for a time 
the task that lay ahead of him, and she threw 
herself into his mood. While Jaggard took 
watchman’s duties, and Hassan watered the 
horses in a tiny stream that ran at the foot 
of the hills back of Persepolis, she wandered 
with her husband through the silent squares 
and ruined palaces of the Lost City. To Judy 
it was not a “city” at all, but merely a gigan- 
tic platform of hewn stone, stippled with splin- 
tered blocks and shattered columns, with huge 
plinths falling into dust, and walls rent with 


"/ WAS A KING IN BABY LON " 293 


great cracks; with ruined archways standing 
gap-toothed to the winds, and battered sculp- 
ture representing the gods and the puissant 
kings of ancient Iran. But to Savidge the 
Lost City meant a great deal more. He Bae- 
dekered her through the silent streets and 
reconstructed the city before her eyes with the 
enthusiasm of the savant. This was his hobby 
— quarrying in the ruins of ancient civiliza- 
tions; and down in his heart of hearts John 
Savidge was prouder of his monograph on 
Persepolis, which was read before the Ninth 
International Congress of Orientalists, than of 
his record as a builder of railways and bridges. 

He kindled to his subject as he saw Judy’s 
eyes glow, her cheeks flush. A raven, perched 
on a broken column, croaked his displeasure 
when they invaded the Palace of Darius, 
which stands on the highest part of the plat- 
form. Pigeons cooed in the ruined temple 
where two-score years previously the explorer 
Stanley had carved his name high on a broken 
pillar. He rebuilt for her the gorgeous Pal- 


294 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


ace of Xerxes, deciphering the inscribed tab- 
lets and friezes. He fascinated her with his 
description of the Hall of a Hundred Col- 
umns, as it stood when Darius held there his 
ceremonies of state. Kicking aside a mass of 
rubble and debris, the detritus of centuries, he 
disclosed a chunk of carbonized cedar. 

“More than two thousand years ago this 
piece of wood was part of a wonderful ceil- 
ing, a ceiling of cedar, carved and chiseled 
and polished, inlaid with gold and silver and 
ivory, studded with topazes and rubies and 
with turquoises from the mines of Nishapur. 
This ceiling had a thousand beams, and they 
were supported by pillars hewn out of solid 
rock. Can you see it? — the friezes orna- 
mented with scrolls and soffits of gold; the 
walls hung with the most gorgeous tapestries 
from the looms of Khorasan; and the dadoes 
of hammered brass? Sometimes, when I had 
been working down here for weeks, I used to 
believe I could see the place as it looked in its 


“IW AS A KING IN BABYLON” 295 


great days, rising out of the plain here, with 
the sun flashing on its temples and palaces!’’ 

“ Why! did you live here,” she asked, won- 
deringly, “and how long?” 

“ Months, off and on. I worked up most of 
my plans here. It was the safest place I could 
find. They took me for an unusually batty 
archaeologist, and let me alone. You remem- 
ber I told you about the underground cham- 
bers and the mile or two of passageways? 
I was practically the first to discover them. 
Of course, others had known about them, but 
none of the later explorers had them on their 
maps. I poked around and found the stair- 
way that led to them, and down there I 
worked. Maybe there’ll be time to go down 
there before we leave, but now you must get 
some sleep. Jove! what a wind!” 

They stepped out from a huge block of 
stone that had sheltered them, and gasped in 
the sudden and unexpected gale. A dusky 
cloud of desert sand swirled across the Lost 


296 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


City, blotting out the sun and filling Judy’s 
hair and eyes with grit. 

“I thought so,” muttered Savidge; “we’re 
in for a regular sand blizzard — about the 
worst thing that can happen down here. It 
may keep up for two or three days, and — and 
I haven’t a thing to smoke!” 

By the time they rejoined Jaggard among 
the ruins of the Palace of Xerxes, the wind 
was so strong it was all Judy could do to stand 
up against it. She noticed that already the 
sand had drifted inches deep on the north side 
of each fallen column and block of stone, and 
lay ribbed across the stone floor of the plateau. 
The air was a maelstrom of whirling sand, 
blotting out the landscape. Behind the dusky 
cloud the sun was nothing but a sickly yellow 
blur. The sand-laden wind swirled over the 
city with a long-drawn-out, swishing noise like 
the sound of huge-girthed rollers breaking on 
a level shore. 

They could just make out the figure of Has- 
san fighting his way towards them through 


“/ WAS A KING IN BABYLON” 297 


the storm. He had picketed the horses in 
the hills back of the city; Jaggard was gath- 
ering up blankets and saddles that were fast 
being drifted under the sand, and placing 
them in a sheltered place behind the mound 
in the center of the plateau. 

“ Keep together! ” Savidge had to raise his 
voice in order to be heard above the hulla- 
baloo of the wind. He untied the pugaree 
from Judy’s helmet and swathed it about the 
upper part of her face. “We won’t be able 
to stand it up here in a minute!” he shouted. 
“ Follow me!” 

They closed up and picked their way slowly 
and painfully across the great stylobate, Sav- 
idge leading and Hassan bringing up the rear 
with some blankets. They could not see a 
half dozen feet ahead of them, and Jaggard 
and Judy had to rely wholly upon Savidge’s 
intimate knowledge of the ground. The wind 
whistled about their ears, the sand pelted 
them, and their clothes looked as if they had 
been through a flour mill. After what seemed 


298 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


to Judy hours of blind groping, they stopped 
in front of a huge block of stone, against 
which the sand splashed like waves against 
a breakwater. Above them, through the yel- 
low blur, Judy could make out the vague leer 
of the great winged bull. Savidge stooped 
down and slipped between the forelegs of the 
beast. Judy followed and found herself in 
darkness that reverberated with the sound of 
his voice. 

“ Don’t move 1 We ’re at the head of a steep 
flight of stairs. Wait till I light a match 1” 

In the brief flare of the match he found her 
hand and guided her to the first step of the 
stairs. Then the match went out, and they de- 
scended through abysmal darkness. It seemed 
to Judy they went down a thousand steps, more 
or less, into the very bowels of the earth. 

“Now stand still where you are,” said 
Savidge’s voice. He struck a second match, 
and they could see him fumbling at the wall 
near the foot of the stairs. Plunging his arm 
in to the elbow, he brought out a handful of 


“I WAS A KING IN BABYLON” 299 


candles. When he had given each of them 
one, he led the way down a short passage to 
what appeared to be an enormous hall, or 
crypt, with two rows of huge pillars springing 
upward into the darkness. Their four will- 
o’-the-wisp lights made little golden patches 
of radiance in the velvet blackness; their 
voices echoed uncannily when they spoke to 
one another. 

Judy noticed that one of the walls at the 
end of the chamber was perforated with win- 
dow-like openings. 

“ We ’re directly under the porch of Xerxes, 
at the head of the Great Stairway,” Savidge 
explained. “Those openings lead to channels 
that used to connect with the cistern overhead. 
That cistern had a capacity of several million 
gallons of water, and I ’ve a theory that when 
too many of his enemies got dangerous, Darius 
used to put them in this room, close the doors, 
and turn the water on. There’s no other way 
to account for the channels, and I shouldn’t 
put it past those old kings!” 


300 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


“Pleasant chaps!” muttered Jaggard. He 
was, as usual, serenely ready for anything. 
He and Savidge had been sizing each other 
up since daylight, in furtive man-fashion, and 
each had come to the conclusion that the other 
would be a very good backer in a fight. There 
had been small opportunity for conversation 
between them; but Judy had told her husband 
of Jaggard’s championing her cause, and Sav- 
idge had expressed his gratitude briefly, with 
perhaps the slightest twinge of jealousy in his 
heart that another man should have been the 
one to share Judy’s first adventures. 

“Is the stairway we came down the only 
way out of here?” Jaggard asked, coming 
back from a stroll around the crypt. “ There ’s 
another passageway opening off the end of this 
room.” 

“That’s the second way out,” answered 
Savidge. “ It comes up in the propylaeum of 
the Hall of a Hundred Columns. There may 
have been a way out, in Darius’s day, through 
the cistern, but now the channels are choked 


“I WAS A KING IN BABYLON” 301 


with sand and the debris of centuries. There 
are two stairways only that I know of — and 
I flatter myself I know Persepolis under 
ground as no other man alive knows it.” 

Jaggard took his candle and went off on an 
exploring trip of his own, after Savidge had 
cautioned him against losing himself in the 
maze of passageways; Hassan composed him- 
self, Oriental fashion, on his heels near the 
stairway, and went to sleep. Savidge folded 
a blanket on the stone floor in front of one of 
the huge pillars and bade Judy try to get a 
little sleep. 

The air in the great chamber was fresh, and 
the place had not a vestige of dampness, owing 
to the elaborate system of air-passages run- 
ning in from under the Great Stairway and 
the Porch of Xerxes. But the darkness was 
complete, except where their candles pricked 
the gloom; and when they spoke aloud their 
voices echoed so hollowly that they fell to 
speaking in low tones, as if afraid of disturb- 
ing the ghosts of hapless men and women 


3°2 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


that had come to their end in this forgotten 
chamber. 

Judy sat down obediently on the blankets, 
but her eyes were very wide and bright. “ I 
don’t think I can sleep,” she said. “It’s the 
spookiest place I ’ve ever seen. Would you — - 
would you mind sitting down? I ’m not scared, 
you know, but I’d feel more comfortable if 
you sat down. There’s plenty of room on 
these blankets.” 

Savidge needed no second invitation. He 
dropped down beside her, and to make quite 
sure she was not afraid, he put his arm around 
her, and she leaned her cheek quite naturally 
against his shoulder. And they talked. Their 
theme was older than the Lost City itself. It 
was born when the world was born, and it will 
be young when the ashes of the world go sift- 
ing down the Milky Way. Doubtless other 
couples had sat in that fatal crypt and seen a 
radiance in the darkness; but Judy and John 
Savidge took no account of them. They were 
wrapt in contemplation of their own singular 


“I WAS A KING IN BABYLON” 


303 


case ; and they told each other the things that 
lovers have recounted since the world was 
born — how and when and where it all began. 

Gradually they worked down to the present, 
from those incredible days when he had been 
the Man from Bagdad, and she was The Little 
Girl in the Cage. They confessed to each 
other those weaknesses that become adorable 
in the person one loves. She admitted being 
afraid of the dark, and he confessed to a 
romantic imagination that no Board of Direct- 
ors ever would have suspected. 

“ What I loved in you first, Judy, was your 
way of looking as if you actually saw the 
things I described to you. I wouldn’t have 
admitted it to you then, but I ’m just as keen 
about picturing out things as you are. Do you 
know, I can shut my eyes and see that railroad 
we’re going to build across this sleeping land! 
I can see the construction gangs stringing out 
across the plains, and the bridge-builders with 
their cranes and spile-piers, and the supply 
trains creeping after!” 


3°4 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


“I know — I know!” she whispered. 

“ It’s God’s own gift — the talent to dream. 
That’s one reason why I could work down 
here all those months and keep from going 
crazy with the loneliness of the place. To me 
it never was a Dead City. I built it up all 
over again. Sometimes I used to have a queer 
feeling that I’ve been here before — ages and 
ages ago, you know. I suppose that sounds 
like rot, doesn’t it? In the States, in the great 
cities of the world, I shouldn’t dare even to 
think of such a thing. But here — well, here 
it’s different. Anything is possible here, in 
these old ruins, among the scowling faces of 
all these outlandish gods and men, among these 
tombs of world-old warriors and kings. Many 
a night, Judy, I ’ve lain up there in the Palace 
of Xerxes, looking up through the shattered 
columns at the stars, and fancying that the 
world had rolled back two thousand years — 
the knightly years, as Henley calls them — 
and that I was a king in Babylon, and all the 
monarchs of the tributary nations marched 


“I WAS A KING IN BABYLON” 305 


humbly before me, bearing gifts! And as I 
lay there under the stars, I could hear the 
thunder of my warriors clattering up the great 
stone staircase, with the heads of my enemies 
on their saddle-bows, and — ” 

Savidge’s voice was blotted out by a rumble 
like that of heavy artillery racketing over a 
stony pavement. Judy clutched her husband’s 
arm and the pair looked at each other with 
questioning eyes. The rumble grew louder 
and louder, rolled over their heads, and then 
died away as suddenly as it came, leaving a 
silence so thick and heavy it seemed to soak 
up the very sound of their breathing. 

“Your dream — coming true!” she gasped. 

“That’s horsemen riding up the stone stair- 
way!” Savidge cried, springing to his feet. 

“The Bakhtiari!” she whispered. 

“No, I don’t believe it. They’re too super- 
stitious to come into the city.” 

“Then who?” 

“That’s what I’m going to find out!” 

Jaggard’s candle could be seen bobbing 


3 °6 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


towards them from the depths of a remote 
passageway, like the ghost of a lonely firefly; 
and Hassan came striding across the chamber 
with a question in his face. Savidge took from 
under a fold of his abba a brace of automatic 
pistols. One he gave to Jaggard and the other 
to Hassan. 

“ Likely enough it’s some caravaners driven 
in by the storm,” Savidge continued ; “ but we 
can’t afford to take any chances. I ’m going 
up there to see — no, there’s no danger, Judy! 
I know where they are, and even if they dis- 
cover our horses, they won’t know where we 
are. Stay over there in the center of the 
chamber and keep your candle lighted. Has- 
san, guard the bottom of the stairs there, and 
Jaggard, will you watch the second passage- 
way? When I’m coming back, I’ll give an 
owl’s hoot — one. If I give two, put out your 
lights at once and wait for me over there at 
the entrance to the second passage, where Jag- 
gard will be. Understand?” 

They nodded assent, and Savidge crept si- 


“I WAS A KING IN BABYLON” 307 


lently up the stairs and disappeared into the 
darkness above. How long they waited there 
in the gloom, none of them knew. They lost 
all track of time. And none of them spoke. 
Hassan, always silent and somber, was rooted 
at the foot of the stairs, his dark face as im- 
passive and inscrutable as ever. Jaggard, too, 
was silent. Judy, from her pillar, could see 
his candle at the other end of the room, a tiny 
point of light in the immensity of the place. 
She held her own candle in her hand. Its 
light struck upward on her white face and 
disheveled hair. Her eyes were enormous 
and dark with suspense, and she leaned for- 
ward a little, straining her ears to catch 
the sound of Savidge’s voice or his returning 
footsteps. 

After an interminable wait, her ears, grown 
acute by reason of the strain upon her nerves, 
caught a faint scratching sound on the stairs. 
She saw Hassan cock the pistol, and in the 
same instant there came down through the 
gloom the faint cry of an owl. It was instantly 


308 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


followed by another. Hassan snatched up his 
candle and sprang towards her. As he clutched 
her arm he blew out both candles. 

“ Quick, Memsahib ! ” He drew her silently 
and swiftly across the chamber to where Jag- 
gard was standing in the passageway. In less 
than a minute they heard the sound of feet 
feeling their way over the stone floor, and 
Savidge joined them. When he spoke, his 
voice was exultant. 

“ It ’s Wolkonsky and a woman ! ” he said. 

“Miss Arlundsen!” whispered Judy. 

Savidge spoke a few quick words to Hassan 
in the vernacular, and they heard the Arab’s 
sandaled feet padding softly down the second 
passageway. 

“They were driven back by the storm,” 
Savidge explained. “There are two natives 
with them, and they’re all coming down here.” 

“Good!” cried Jaggard. “We can fight it 
out here, man to man.” 

“Not yet,” replied Savidge. “We’re even 
as far as numbers go; but you forget that 


“I WAS A KING IN BABYLON” 309 


we can muster only two pistols between us. 
They’ve got rifles and revolvers. We’ll have 
to try strategy first. . . . Listen!” 

Voices could be heard coming nearer down 
the first stairway. 

“We haven’t any time to lose,” Savidge 
added. “ I ’ll go ahead. Follow me close.” 

He picked up Judy’s blankets and gave them 
to Jaggard, taking the automatic pistol him- 
self. Silently the three groped their way 
through the long dark passage, their hands 
slipping along the smooth-faced wall. After 
several turnings, Savidge lit a candle, and they 
found themselves blinking in a large chamber 
similar to the one they had left. Savidge 
pointed to a flight of stone steps in one corner. 

“ That’s the second way out. Hassan is 
above by this time, guarding the other way — 
the one we came down. We’ve got Wolkon- 
sky trapped underground!” 

“Nailed up right and tight!” Jaggard 
chuckled. 

“And the best part of it is he doesn’t know 


3 IQ 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


we’re here!” said Judy. Her eyes were 
sparkling with excitement. 

“ He knows by this time.” Savidge smiled 
at her puzzled expression. “ It would n’t take 
long for a chap like Wolkonsky to guess what 
became of those candles. We’d better get up 
above before he catches us here.” 

At the top of the stairs a narrow shaft of 
light located for them the entrance into the 
open air. Savidge looked out cautiously, and 
then slipped through the narrow opening. 
They were standing under a propylaeum in 
front of the ruins of the Hall of a Hundred 
Columns. Across the open court they could 
see the pair of winged bulls, near one of which 
stood Hassan, his head bent as if he was 
listening, the pistol held cocked in his hand. 
The storm had somewhat abated, although the 
air was still full of a light swirl of sand. 

“Jaggard, suppose you take Mrs. Savidge 
over there to a sheltered spot and make her 
comfortable. She ought to get a little rest. It 
may be hours before they attempt to come up 


" I WAS A KING IN BAB YLON ” 3 1 1 


from down there. I’ll stand guard here.” 
And aside, to Jaggard, he added: “Take her 
out of range.” 

Judy opened her mouth to protest, but be- 
fore a word got out they heard Hassan’s voice 
exclaim harshly in the vernacular. Then 
there came the sound of a revolver shot across 
the stone plateau, followed immediately by 
the long, shattering report of an automatic. 

“They’re rushing Hassan!” Savidge ex- 
claimed. “Judy, keep under cover. Guard 
this entrance, Jaggard!” 

And he started running through the sand- 
laden air towards the smoke-puffs that curled 
about the legs of the great stone beast that 
guarded the first entrance to the underground 
city. 


CHAPTER XV 
AT THE JOURNEY’S END 

F OR one tense moment Judy stood with 
her heart pounding in her throat. Then 
there swept over her the realization that 
Savidge was in danger. She forgot every- 
thing else; forgot that she was a quiet and 
eminently sensible young woman in whose life 
battle, murder, and sudden death had played 
no more stirring part than is vouchsafed by 
a virile imagination; forgot that she was a 
part of the highly intensified and complicated 
civilization of the twentieth century — for- 
got everything, in fact, except that she was 
a woman and must be fighting with her man. 
In that moment she sloughed the factitious 
culture of the centuries and became the primi- 
tive woman, akin to the woman of the cave 
that trudged shoulder to shoulder with her 
man and took her part in the houghing. 

312 


AT THE JOURNEY’S END 


3*3 


Through the light swirl of the sand she 
saw three men at the feet of the winged bull 
— Hassan and two others that had thrown 
themselves out upon him from the narrow 
doorway. Then there came a fusillade of shots 
and the smoke blotted out the combatants. She 
ran toward them with a bird-like sensation 
of lightness and swiftness, oblivious to the 
crashing of the automatics, absolutely for the 
moment without fear. Just as she came near 
enough to make out their figures through the 
smoke and flying sand, she saw Hassan stag- 
ger backward and fall with a flinging up of 
one arm, and Savidge spring towards him, his 
pistol leveled at the opening to the under- 
ground passage. Only one of the attacking 
party was visible, and he had retreated to the 
doorway. Judy darted upon the automatic 
that Hassan had dropped; and she had time 
even in that crowded instant to think grate- 
fully of Jaggard, who had taught her to use 
a pistol with some effect during the long ride 
to Tabriz. 


3H 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


When she straightened up from the ground, 
Savidge was standing close to the side of the 
entrance to the underground stairway. His 
face was set and his eyes had in them the glint 
of cold steel. At his feet the blood was 
trickling in a thin thread from a wound in 
Hassan’s head. Judy kept her eyes averted 
from that sinister line of crimson and gripped 
her pistol. After a long minute of listening, 
Savidge looked around at her, saw her white, 
exalted face and the pistol gripped in her 
hand. 

“ Good girl ! ” he smiled at her. 

“ Is Hassan dead?” she whispered. 

Savidge shook his head. “Only a scalp 
wound, I think. I want you to stand here and 
listen for any sound from the stairway. 
They’ve retreated with one man wounded, 
but they’ll probably rush the second entrance 
over there as soon as they get their second 
wind. I’ll stand guard there and send Jag- 
gard over here to fix up Hassan. Keep away 
from the opening.” 


AT THE JOURNEY’S END 315 


He bent for an instant over Hassan, then he 
patted her on the shoulder. “ Good girl ! ” he 
said again, and hastened across the ruined city 
to the propylaeum in front of the Hall of One 
Hundred Columns. The soldier that receives 
a decoration from the hands of his general 
for gallantry on the field of battle could not 
feel prouder than Judy felt over that touch 
on her shoulder and those two simple words 
of praise. It established a new bond between 
them ; for after all is said and done, the high- 
est expression of love between a man and a 
woman is experienced only by those that have 
fronted a great danger together and looked 
unflinchingly into the eyes of death. 

Pistol in hand, she took up her post beside 
the forelegs of the great stone bull. In a 
moment Jaggard appeared, bound up Has- 
san’s head, and proceeded to half carry, half 
drag him to the shelter of the ruins where 
they had eaten their breakfast. He then went 
to the hills back of the city for water to bathe 
the wound. 


3 1 6 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


The wind went down, the air cleared, and 
the sun shone out scorching bright from a tur- 
quoise sky. About a hundred yards away 
across the ruins that strewed the plateau Judy 
could see her husband leaning against a pillar, 
his pistol in hand, alertly waiting. A burning, 
oppressive quiet settled over the Lost City; 
the horses, picketed not far away among the 
ruins of Xerxes’s Palace, stood quiet, with 
drooping heads; a kite hung for a moment 
high up against the brazen blue of the sky, 
and then sailed away with a languorous move- 
ment of its wings. Savidge waved to her to 
sit down; and she sank back in the shadow 
cast by the great wings of the bull. 

It was not much past the middle of the 
afternoon, but it seemed to her that days had 
passed since they first sighted the Lost City 
looming up through the dawn. She sat on 
her heels, the automatic clutched in her hand, 
her ears straining for sounds of movement be- 
yond the narrow opening. She and Savidge 


AT THE JOURNEYS END 317 


were too far apart for conversation, but she 
could watch his every movement, and she kept 
her eyes fixed on him, dreading the sound of 
the first shot that should announce Wolkon- 
sky’s second attempt to get out of the trap 
in which he found himself. But no sound 
broke the stillness of the afternoon heat. Jag- 
gard came back with water and finished his 
dressing of Hassan’s wound. Then he made 
tea and brought her a cup, with a generous 
piece of sandjiak and some date paste. She 
ate and drank eagerly, unaware that the two 
men had gone on half rations that she might 
have enough. It was decided, upon her insist- 
ence, that Savidge, who had not slept for two 
nights, should be relieved by Jaggard and get 
two hours’ rest. Hassan had recovered con- 
sciousness, and Jaggard believed he should be 
up and around in a few hours. The impor- 
tant thing was that Savidge should be in good 
form for the night’s events, whatever they 
were to be, and somewhat reluctantly he gave 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


3i8 

up his post to Jaggard. Bringing his blanket 
over to where Judy sat, he stretched out in the 
shade of the winged bull. 

“ I hate to sleep and leave you on guard, 
Judy,” he said. “Are you sure you can stand 
it, girl?” 

“ I never felt more wide awake in my life! 
I ’m equal to anything. I only wish they 
would come up,” she cried, her eyes very big 
and bright. 

Savidge laughed drowsily. “Good little 
Judy! Didn’t I say she would make a good 
soldier! — ” 

His voice trailed off to silence and he was 
asleep before the sentence was finished. 

Judy laid the pistol on her knees and sat 
with her chin in her hands. Many curious 
and undreamed-of thoughts went through her 
mind. Very close to the surface of every 
normal woman sleeps that other woman that 
has not forgotten the cave days. In Judy the 
cave-woman had awakened. As she sat there 
watching over her sleeping man, listening for 


AT THE JOURNEY'S END 319 


the sound of his enemies’ approach, she was as 
old as the sun-bitten stones themselves. Some- 
thing elemental and eternal awoke in her, a 
new look brooded in her eyes. When the sun 
dropped lower and shone hot upon him, she 
moved so that she could still shade him from 
its rays; and a sweet, deep expression came 
into her face. 

The sun had gone down and the sudden twi- 
light was creeping like a blue spirit through 
the ruins of the city, and the jackals were be- 
ginning to tune up for their evening concert, 
when Savidge awoke. 

“Well, girl, how goes it?” he asked, as he 
stretched his arms. 

“All quiet along the Polvar! Haven’t 
heard so much as a whisper all the afternoon.” 

“Which means they’re brewing something 
for tonight,” he said. “You must have some- 
thing to eat, if there’s anything left, and turn 
in for a good long rest.” 

“ I ’ve been thinking. Can’t I keep guard 
with you tonight?” 


320 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


He looked at her tenderly and shook his 
head. 

“ Please, John,” she pleaded; “ I want to be 
with you if — if anything should happen.” 

He took her face between his two hands, 
looked down into her eyes as if he would find 
the soul in their liquid depths, and kissed her 
full upon the lips. “ You must sleep tonight.” 
The solicitude in his voice was very sweet 
to her. “You must get all the rest you can. 
We may have to get away any moment, and 
you must be ready to ride long and hard.” 

“ But you may be in danger! ” 

Savidge gave her slender shoulders a little 
shake. “ Don’t worry your little head about 
me! I’ve got the whip-hand of our friend, 
and he knows it! He got all he wanted this 
morning, and I reckon he’ll be mighty care- 
ful the next move he makes.” 

“ But he won’t stay down there like a rat in 
a trap ! ” 

“And starve? I guess not! He’ll either 


AT THE JOURNEY'S END 


321 


try to fight his way out, or work some sort of 
trick.” 

“ He may surrender.” 

Savidge shook his head. 

“Wolkonsky’s not one of the surrendering 
kind. No, he’ll fight it out, unless — unless — ” 

“ Unless what?” Judy looked up quickly. 
She saw that he was debating some question 
with himself. 

“ Oh, I just happened to think of the woman, 
Miss Arlundsen,” he said, with an attempt at 
lightness that did not deceive her. “ Her being 
down there sort of complicates matters for 
Wolkonsky.” 

Judy flushed to her temples. “And my 
being up here complicates matters for you — 
is that what you mean? ” 

“Yes,” he answered honestly, “it does. If 
you were not here — Oh! my dear, my dear, 
don’t misunderstand me!” He took her face 
again between his hands and kissed the eyes 
that looked wistfully into his own. “Don’t 


3 22 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


you see how it is, Judy? It is because I love 
you so, it’s because you have become so pre- 
cious to me that I’m afraid — yes, afraid! 
That’s the only word for it. I’ve lived so 
many centuries without you that if anything 
should happen to you now, it would mean the 
end for me.” 

She leaned closer to him and pressed her 
cheek softly against his shoulder; and thus 
they stood for a moment, thinking of many 
things. At last she moved with a sigh and 
slipped her arm about his neck. 

“ You ’re a man,” she said slowly, “and 
must do your work. Whatever happens, you 
must do your work. You are not made for 
little things, John, dear. Oh, I know more 
about you than you dream. Hassan has told 
me, and Jaggard. Your bravery is a word in 
the East.” She drew his head down to hers. 
“ I love you, dear, because you are a man.” 

“And I love you,” he whispered, “because 
you are a woman — the bravest and the most 
glorious woman in all the world, and — ” 


AT THE JOURNEYS END 


323 


“The happiest, dear,” she said. 

From the tangle of ruins at the other end 
of the stone plateau came a succession of weird 
cries. Judy started and shrank closer to her 
husband. 

“It’s nothing,” Savidge answered her. 
“ It’s only the owls waking up. They’ll keep 
that up all night, and the jackals will answer 
them from out there on the plain. So, you see, 
I won’t be lonesome.” 

“ I wish I could stay with you,” she urged 
in reply. 

“ So do I, dear, but you must get some sleep. 
Stay here a minute while I go see how Hassan 
is coming on, and get a bite for you to eat.” 

When he came back he brought water and 
a small piece of sandjiak — the last in the 
saddle-bags. She refused to touch it until he 
had consented to take a mouthful; and they 
ate this very inadequate meal sitting on the 
same block of stone, while the moon came up 
magnificently to turn the Lost City into a silver 
miracle. Across the plateau they could see 


3 2 4 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


Jaggard at his post, entirely comfortable and 
quite at home. 

“I like your friend, Judy,” Savidge said. 
“ He stands four-square to the winds, and 
doesn’t scare worth a cent.” 

Judy looked pleased. “ I knew you would 
like him, for he, too, is a man. I never could 
have got down here without Jaggard.” 

“I know, I know. He’s done me a service 
that I can never repay. Just the same, Judy, 
I confess — I don’t mind telling you now — I 
was a little jealous of your Mr. Jaggard.” 

Judy laughed. “ Jealous? Tom Jaggard is 
not the kind of man that falls in love with 
every woman he meets. He’s not a woman’s 
man. He has treated me as if I were his sister. 
He’s not the kind to settle down by his 
own fireside. Wives, he puts it, are excess 
baggage.” 

“ Excess baggage!” Savidge repeated, “yes, 
some wives would be exactly that.” 

She looked up at him with wistful, sea- 
green eyes, and he read the question in them. 


AT THE JOURNEY’S END 325 


“Not you, Judy,” he said. “You’re just 
what I said you would be, that day in the 
mezzanine balcony: You’re the kind that 
will always play the game, and play it like 
a soldier.” 

Her face flushed and her eyes glowed with 
happiness. “ I don’t ask for anything but the 
chance to play it with you, John. Wherever 
you go, whatever chances you have to take, I 
want to be with you if I ’m fit.” 

“You’re fit,” he nodded, with a touch of 
grimness in his face. “ I don’t know how 
we’re coming out of this situation, exactly. 
They’ve got the arms and I’ve got the posi- 
tion, and neither of us has any food. But 
sooner or later I believe I am going to win 
this game. And I ’d rather have you to help 
me, Judy, than any man I have ever known.” 

High up in a broken column an owl hooted 
and a jackal answered from out the great 
spaces of the night. 

“You must turn in now, Judy,” Savidge 
said. “ I Ve fixed your blankets over there in 


3 2 6 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


the Palace of Xerxes, and Hassan will be there 
to guard you. You won’t be afraid, will you, 
girl?” 

“ I won’t be afraid with you over here,” she 
answered. “I should never be afraid any- 
where with you.” 

She stood up and looked at him for a mo- 
ment earnestly. “ If I were not here, nothing 
could make you go away and lose your chance 
at Wolkonsky — not even starvation. Isn’t 
that so?” 

Savidge nodded his head slowly. 

“ Well, nothing on earth can make me give 
up, either — not even starvation. We’ll fight 
it out together, John, as we’ll fight everything 
together, to the end.” 

Savidge put his hand on her shoulder and 
looked at her indomitable little face, at her 
sensitive mouth, and her steady eyes. 

“ Always together, Judy,” he said softly, “ to 
the end.” 


The moon was high above the fragmentary 


AT THE JOURNEY’S END 327 


hills back of the city, and the stars were wheel- 
ing down the track of night, when Judy drew 
the blankets over her and lay down. She had 
never felt less like sleep, except that first night 
in the bala-khanah at Akstafa. She thought 
of that night now, and of how lonely she had 
been among all those strange figures and 
bizarre surroundings, and how she had missed 
John Savidge that first night of their separa- 
tion. And then her thoughts wandered down 
the long trail to Tabriz, to Isfahan, to that 
unreal performance of magic in the shadow 
of the rock tombs of the Achaemenian kings. 
She lived again that wonderful, tremulous 
moment of recognition, the rush for the horses, 
the pursuit of the Bakhtiari. Her nerves 
quivered, her heart pounded, the blood rioted 
through her body as she felt again the mad 
embrace, the wild kiss in that quixotic instant 
before John Savidge swung her into the sad- 
dle and they spurred away from the pursuing 
tribesmen. 

She could not sleep; the blankets seemed 


3 2 8 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


to stifle her. She threw them aside and stood 
up. A shadowy figure, the head swathed in 
white, rose up from beside a broken column. 

“ Is it you, Memsahib ? ” a voice inquired. 

“Yes, Hassan.” The Arab squatted down 
again by the column. 

Judy drew a long breath and looked over 
the sleeping city. The moonlight threw fan- 
tastic shadows over the ruins. An owl perched 
near by hooted at her querulously, and from 
across the plain came the melancholy howling 
of jackals. Across the stone plateau the black 
bulk of the winged bulls loomed between her 
and the horizon, and she knew that Savidge 
was standing in their shadow, waiting, watch- 
ing, as unafraid and untiring as the granite 
beasts themselves. She touched her lips with 
her fingers and blew a kiss to him. 

“Good-night, John, dear,” she said, very 
softly. 

Then she cuddled down in her blankets and 
paid no more attention to the hooting owls 
or the dolorous voices of the wawi. The 


AT THE JOURNEY’S END 


329 


hundred and one voices of the night dropped 
half-toned on her ear and she fell asleep. 

The sun was high in the sky of flawless tur- 
quoise when she awoke. For a moment she 
lay blinking her eyes, trying to think where 
she was or what had happened. Then she 
started to her feet with a feeling that she 
had missed the performance of some duty ; 
She ran around the corner of the ruined wall 
and looked at once for Savidge. He was sit- 
ting beside the winged bull, pistol in hand, 
just as she had left him the night before. He 
waved to her a greeting, and she put the tips 
of her fingers to her lips. Hassan, she saw, 
was guarding the second underground en- 
trance, and Jaggard was nowhere in sight. It 
did not take Judy long to do her toilet. She 
arranged her hair as well as she could without 
a mirror, indulged in a dry wash, and brushed 
the sand from her clothes. 

Savidge met her with a smiling face. There 
had been no trouble during the night, he told 
her. The enemy had not even ventured up- 


330 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


stairs. He had solved the food question by 
sending Jaggard to a chapar-khanah a half 
dozen miles away across the Plain of Merv- 
dasht. He had started shortly after daybreak, 
and if nothing unforeseen occurred, he should 
be back in time to prepare the noonday meal. 

“ Sorry, Judy,” Savidge said, “but I’ve 
nothing to offer you for breakfast but water. 
Do you think you can stand it till noon?” 

She assured him she was as fit as a fiddle. 
The water bottle was brought out from the 
cool shade of the stone foundation on which 
the winged bulls stood, and Judy took a long 
draught. Her night’s sleep had rested her, 
and she looked fresh and young and ready for 
anything. Savidge, on the other hand, was 
haggard with the night’s vigil. She was try- 
ing to induce him to let her take over the 
guard duty while he slept for an hour or two, 
when he held up one hand for silence, and 
she saw his fingers tighten over the butt of 
the pistol as he tiptoed forward a pace. 

She listened intently, and to her ears there 


AT THE JOURNEY’S END 331 


came a faint sound as of something metallic 
being drawn across the stone floor below. 
Savidge motioned her back, and she crouched 
against the side of the great bull, every nerve 
in her body quivering in sudden excitement. 
The noise came nearer and stopped. Then 
the long black barrel of a rifle was thrust out 
between the forelegs of the winged bull. Tied 
to the end of the barrel was a white handker- 
chief. The besieged were offering a flag of 
truce. 

“Come out!” called Savidge. 

The rifle was pushed out onto the platform, 
and was followed at once by Wolkonsky, as 
smiling and debonair as if he had been mak- 
ing a morning call. He saluted Savidge, who 
holstered his pistol as soon as he recognized 
the Chief. 

“I didn’t know you at first in that make- 
up,” Wolkonsky said, pleasantly. . . . “Ah, 
Madame Savidge. This is a pleasure.” 

He doffed his helmet and bowed with grave 
courtesy. Then he turned to Savidge. “I 


3 32 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


am glad Madame is here; it makes my task 
easier. For myself and my men, I ask no quar- 
ter; but one cannot make war on women — is 
it not so, Monsieur Savidge?” 

Savidge nodded his head, and waited. 

“It is for Mademoiselle Arlundsen that I 
ask your favor. She is not well. She is in 
need of food and water, and — well, we have 
neither.” He shrugged his shoulders. “ For 
myself, it is all in the game.” 

“ Quite so,” said Savidge, brusquely. “ Miss 
Arlundsen is at liberty to come out and share 
our food.” 

Wolkonsky raised his hand in the military 
salute. “I thank you, Monsieur; and I give 
you my word that while Mademoiselle Ar- 
lundsen is with you we shall make no attack.” 

“ I accept the pledge,” replied Savidge, re- 
turning the salute. 

“ I have one more favor to ask,” Wolkonsky 
added. “ Our horses — ” 

“ They have been watered and fed.” 


AT THE JOURNEYS END 


333 


Wolkonsky smiled. “You are a generous 
enemy, Monsieur Savidge.” 

He bowed again to Judy, and disappeared 
between the forelegs of the winged bull. Sav- 
idge looked at Judy and smiled. “ I think the 
bird is coming to the net,” he said, enigmat- 
ically. 

“But we haven’t any food for her!” Judy 
protested. 

“No, my dear, we haven’t. But by the 
same token, we couldn’t let Mr. Wolkonsky 
know that we are as near starvation as he is. 
You stay here and receive Miss Arlundsen; 
you’re old friends, I believe. I want a few 
words with Hassan.” 

“ But suppose they rush out and attack us?” 

Savidge shook his head. “Wolkonsky has 
passed his word, and nothing in this world 
or the next could make him break his pledge. 
While Miss Arlundsen is out here, Wolkonsky 
will not raise his finger against us.” 

Savidge and Hassan were deep in consulta- 


334 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


tion when Lina Arlundsen appeared at the 
entrance of the first passage. Her face was 
pale and drawn, her eyes had a tired expres- 
sion; but she nodded to Judy in her usual 
cool manner. 

“ I did n’t expect to see you here,” she said, 
easily. 

“No, I suppose not,” returned Judy, coldly. 
“ I shouldn’t think you would want to see me, 
after — after — ” 

Miss Arlundsen shrugged her shoulders. 
“Why not?” she asked, coolly. 

“Because of those papers you stole from 
me,” Judy flared. 

“Stole? That is a hard word, Mrs. Sav- 
idge. But I suppose from your point of view 
you have a right to feel indignant. I dare 
say your husband does not look at in in so 
narrow a light.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“ I mean just this: that what you call steal- 
ing I call duty, and that is what John Savidge 


AT THE JOURNEY'S END 


335 


would call it, too. Steal? Bah! What do 
you know about the game? What do you 
know about big things?” She snapped her 
fingers disdainfully. “ We ’re not playing this 
things for copecks or rubles, my dear. We’re 
playing it for Empire.” 

“ I don’t understand,” faltered Judy. 

“No, of course you don’t. Sometimes I 
don’t understand it myself. I only know that 
all around me the greatest of all games is 
being played, with the whole world for a 
board and real kings and queens and knights 
for the chessmen. You and I are only pawns 
in the game, my dear, and we have no say as 
to where we shall be placed.” 

She sat down wearily on a block of stone. 
“I took your papers, Mrs. Savidge. That’s 
what I was sent to the caravan for. I took 
your papers because it was a part of the game. 
I am not ashamed. Rather, I am proud of it 
as the most skillful piece of work I have ever 
done for the Service.” A smile flickered across 


336 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


her face. “Even M’sieu Jaggard compli- 
mented me on it, and I dare say you will 
agree with him, some day.” 

Judy looked at the face of the other woman 
and saw the pitiless sunlight bring out the 
hard and weary lines that her life had etched 
there; and in her heart there stirred an unwill- 
ing sort of admiration and undeniable pity. 
For, after all, this other woman was a fighter, 
too, and a good player of the game. And, 
furthermore, she did not look in that instant 
as if the playing had brought her a great deal 
of happiness. 

“I think I understand you better than I 
did,” Judy said, honestly. “But there is one 
thing I don’t understand, and that is how you 
read the papers after you got them.” 

“The cipher?” Miss Arlundsen smiled 
again, this time showing the white line of 
her perfect teeth. “ My dear Mrs. Savidge, 
that was the simplest part of the work. When 
I first saw you, I knew your husband must 
be very much in love with you ; and when I 


AT THE JOURNEY'S END 337 


heard your name, ah, Judith is so pretty a 
name, you know! Woman-like, I jumped to 
a conclusion. By experimenting I found out 
my conclusion was right. Your husband had 
used your name as the keyword. It was merely 
a matter of intuition, you see.” 

“That’s the way Mr. Jaggard figured it 
out,” Judy admitted. 

Lina Arlundsen elevated her eyebrows ever 
so slightly. “Mr. Jaggard is a very clever 
man,” she said. 

She stood up languidly, and put her hand 
to her head. “ My eyes are torturing me,” she 
said. “In my saddle-bags are some colored 
glasses. If you don’t mind, I will get them 
and come back.” 

She swung across the stone plateau with her 
old familiar stride, and was almost at once 
lost to sight behind the mound where Wol- 
konsky’s horses were picketed. Judy looked 
across to the Hall of One Hundred Columns, 
where her husband stood talking to Hassan. 
She saw Savidge glance once at Miss Arlund- 


33 ^ 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


sen’s retreating figure, and go on with his con- 
versation. Judy sat down and looked across 
the Plain of Mervdasht. Near the horizon 
was a cloud of dust, and she wondered if it 
could be the Bakhtiari, or Jaggard coming 
back. 

Her speculations were interrupted by the 
sharp, sudden sound of horse’s hoofs clattering 
on the stone platform. As she sprang to her 
feet, she heard Savidge call out a command to 
halt, and the next instant Lina Arlundsen ap- 
peared from behind the mound, mounted and 
riding at a gallop straight for the Great Stair- 
way. At her left Judy was aware of Savidge 
running across the plateau. He shouted out 
a second command to halt, to which the rider 
paid no attention. It was spectacular, blood- 
stirring — her splendid dash across the rock- 
strewn plateau. Savidge called to her once 
more; then, just before the horse reached the 
top of the Great Stairway, he raised his pistol 
and fired. 



The horse fell . . 


throwing the woman to the 
ground 















AT THE JOURNEY'S END 


339 


At the report the horse stumbled, gave a 
leap forward, and then fell to its knees, throw- 
ing the woman to the ground. She fell on her 
head and lay quiet. Savidge ran up as the 
horse scrambled to its feet — the bullet had 
creased its shoulder — caught it by the bridle, 
ran it toward the Great Stairway, and sent it 
clattering down the steps. The loud rattle of 
its hoofs startled the doves from their nesting 
places in the Palace of Darius. 

Judy ran towards the unconscious woman, 
as Savidge cried : “ Search her, Judy ! ” 

With one hand she unbuttoned the flannel 
blouse and with the other she searched be- 
neath it. Just as Savidge hastened back to 
her, she straightened up with an exultant cry. 
Under Miss Arlundsen’s blouse were folded 
a half dozen sheets of draughtsman’s cloth. 
Judy pulled them out, and Savidge rapidly 
scanned them. 

“They’re all there — every one of my 
maps,” he announced. Then he bent down 


340 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


and examined the body, feeling the bones of 
the arms and legs, and putting his ear to the 
heart. 

“ A nasty fall, but no bones are broken,” he 
said. “Judy, spread the blankets behind the 
propylaeum. Hassan and I must get her out 
of sight at once. Under no circumstances 
must she be seen; for I have a notion it won’t 
be long before our friends come up from 
below.” 

Savidge’s words were prophetic. Less than 
an hour after Lina Arlundsen’s dramatic at- 
tempt to escape from the Lost City, the flag 
of truce was again thrust out between the fore- 
legs of the winged bull at the first entrance, 
and Wolkonsky made his second appearance. 
There was a cynical smile on his face as he 
greeted Savidge. 

“There is no use of parleying,” he said, 
bluntly. “You have lost the game, Monsieur 
Savidge.” 

“Quite so,” agreed Savidge, in his most 
laconic voice. 


AT THE JOURNEYS END 


34i 


“ I kept my word,” continued Wolkonsky. 
“I made no move while Mademoiselle Ar- 
lundsen was up here. But I did not pass my 
word that she should not escape with your 
maps.” 

“Quite so,” said Savidge. “But how did 
you know she escaped? ” 

The Russian chuckled. “We heard her 
riding down the stairway.” 

Savidge smiled grimly. “That was clever, 
Wolkonsky — damn clever!” 

The head of the Secret Service held out his 
hand. 

“At any rate, Monsieur Savidge, you and I 
can shake hands. You know, there’s nothing 
personal between us. Since that night at Sa- 
markand, when you fought us single-handed, 
I have admired you more than any man I 
know. You ’ve made life worth living for me. 
You’ve given me more trouble in the last 
few years than all the Nihilists in Russia, 
and personally there’s nothing in the world 
I would n’t do for you.” 


342 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


“Thanks,” said Savidge, dryly. “There’s 
only one thing you can do for me — now.” 

“What is that?” 

Savidge pointed to the belt around Wol- 
konsky’s waist. 

“ My gun,” he said. 

“To be sure. I have carried it ever since 
that day at Tiflis.” 

He handed the belt to Savidge, who buckled 
it around his own waist. “Now I feel more 
like myself,” the American said, gaily, pat- 
ting the holster affectionately. “I didn’t ex- 
pect to get the old boy back till I got to 
Teheran — on official business.” 

The Russian smiled. “What do you say on 
these occasions? Ah, yes! Something about 
the plans of mice and men — is not that so?” 

“We have a better one than that: To the 
victor belong the spoils. I congratulate you, 
Wolkonsky, and assure you I have no hard 
feelings. But the game isn’t finished yet, and 
I have a fancy we shall meet again some- 
where. Perhaps in Teheran — who knows?” 


AT THE JOURNEY’S END 


343 


“Who knows ?” answered the Russian, 
gravely. 

A quarter of an hour later Savidge and 
Judy stood arm in arm at the head of the 
Great Stairway and watched Wolkonsky ride 
away. At the foot he turned and waved his 
hand to them, and they waved back. They 
might have been host and hostess speeding a 
parting guest. Savidge looked after him, and 
Judy saw his face wrinkle up in one of his 
rare, boyish smiles. 

“ I reckon the Chief won’t be so jolly when 
he gets to Shiraz and looks for the lady,” he 
chuckled. “And perhaps he won’t be so 
friendly when we meet in Teheran on the 
first day of June!” 

Judy looked at him with a puzzled expres- 
sion in her eyes. “ But the Company’s paper 
— the bids and agreements, you know — what 
will you do about it? What did you do 
with it?” 

“ Gave it to Wolkonsky for safe keeping.” 

“What do you mean?” 


344 


THE BEAR'S CLAWS 


Savidge looked down into his wife’s round 
eyes and smiled. “I mean just what I say. 
When I was arrested in Tiflis I gave the paper 
to Wolkonsky to keep for me — only he didn’t 
know it.” 

“ You’re not serious?” 

“Never more serious in my life. Look 
here!” He unbuckled the gun-belt and 
opened the holster. “See that stitching?” he 
asked, pointing to a seam that ran around the 
top of the holster. “ In reality there are two 
holsters, one sewed inside the other. The 
paper is between the inside and the outside 
leathers.” 

Judy gasped again. “And you handed it 
to him in Tiflis! Think of the chances you 
were taking!” 

“ My dear, haven’t I told you that the man 
that never takes chances loses just as often as 
the man that does? It was the one thing I 
could do under the circumstances. Knowing 
Wolkonsky’s reputation for keeping his word, 
I figured he would hand me over that gun 


AT THE JOURNEYS END 345 


in Teheran if he once agreed to do so. So I 
took a chance on his guessing there was a 
paper sewed in the holster. In this game 
there ’s half in learning when to take a chance, 
you see.” 

It was late in the afternoon when Jaggard 
returned with food, leading Miss Arlundsen’s 
horse, which he had picked up on the plain. 
The reason for his long delay, he explained, 
was a wide detour he had to make to escape a 
scouting party of Bakhtiari — probably the 
same party whose dust Judy saw near the hori- 
zon at the very time Lina Arlundsen made her 
attempt to escape. Savidge told him the story 
of the last few hours in a few words. 

“Well, I’ll be hornswoggled ! ” was his 
only comment. He walked away to pay a 
visit to Miss Arlundsen, who had regained 
consciousness soon after Wolkonsky left the 
Lost City, and was now recovering from her 
fall in the shade of the distant ruins. 

In a few moments Jaggard came back to 
them. “The Lina lady has got a few beauty 


346 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


marks on her face and a splitting headache; 
otherwise she ’s all right. She says she ’ll ride 
on to Shiraz tonight, with your permission.” 

“ She can’t go alone,” said Savidge, “ and I 
had planned to get a little sleep and set out 
for Isfahan at midnight. I can’t afford to 
lose any more time.” 

“She isn’t going alone,” Jaggard replied, 
wrinkling his round face and pursing his lips. 
He stood in his old familiar attitude, legs 
wide apart, shoulders inclined slightly for- 
ward, thumbs hooked in the corner of his 
trousers pockets. A long, level ray of the 
setting sun fell on him, and once more Judy 
was reminded of the Yama Yama man. 

“You don’t mean — ?” she began. 

“I do,” said Jaggard. “I’m on my way 
south to the Gulf, and Shiraz is one of the 
points of interest on the way.” 

“ But we have counted on your going with 
us to Teheran.” 

Jaggard slowly shook his head. “You don’t 
need me any more, Mrs. Savidge, and — and 


AT THE JOURNEY’S END 


347 


don’t you remember those lines you quoted up 
there at Akstafa?” 

“ For to admire and for to see, 

For to be’old the world so wide,” 

she repeated softly. 

“ Exactly,” said Jaggard. “That fits me to 
a T. I ’ve got to keep on going — I ’ve got to 
see how the whole blooming world is made 
before I die. There ’s an old fakir waiting for 
me somewhere up the Bubbling Well Road. 
He’s promised to show me his little bag o’ 
tricks, and — and I’m overdue now.” 

Again from the top of the Stairway they 
watched the Great Jaggard ride away with 
Miss Arlundsen. 

“The world is a very small place, Jaggard; 
we’ll see you again,” Savidge called after 
him. 

“Oh, yes! Somewhere, when we’re swing- 
ing ’round the circle, we’ll meet up!” he 
replied, grinning back at them. 

Judy gazed after the big red head of the 
Tramp Royal as he turned and rode off, and 


348 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


she reflected with a little contraction of her 
heart that they should in all probability never 
see his friendly face again. They, too, were 
tramps, and they had no abiding place, no 
roof-tree whose hospitality they could offer to 
this other wanderer. As if he had read her 
thought, Savidge said: 

“When we get a little house of our own, 
Judy, we’ll send out the word to Jaggard and 
have him come to see us. Shall we? ” 

She looked up at him quickly. “ Oh ! Shall 
we have a house — a really home?” 

There was no mistaking the rapture in her 
voice. 

“Why, Judy, you little hypocrite!” he 
laughed at her; “I thought you wanted to 
wander the rest of your life, never to live 
between walls or under a fixed roof ? ” 

She looked away from him, across the great 
plain. The sun had set and the iridescent 
glory had faded from the world. It lay gray 
and lonely, already touched with the mystery 
of night. Among the ruins of the Palace of 


AT THE JOURNEY'S END 349 


Xerxes, Hassan was making tea over a tiny 
fire. Her eyes turned wistfully from the desert 
to the little homely spot of cheer where the 
Arab boiled his kettle. 

“ I want, first of all, to be with you, John,” 
she said, slowly. “If it means wandering, 
then I want to be a wanderer. But I should 
like, somewhere in the world, a little house 
that would be ours — yours and mine — to 
which we could go back sometimes, and where 
I could have you — safe.” 

She hid her face against his shoulder. 
Putting up his hand, he felt her tears against 
his fingers. 

“ I know, I know,” he whispered, his lips 
touching her hair. “ And where I could have 
you safe.” 

They clung to each other for an instant; and 
then Savidge held her off and looked at her 
tenderly and gravely. 

“There’s the work to be done, you know, 
Judy. I’ve won out so far, but the game’s 
not played down here, yet. I think we’ll put 


35 ° 


THE BEAR’S CLAWS 


the big road through, all right, but there’ll 
still be fighting to do. I can’t give it up till 
the last spike is driven, till I am sure the Bear 
has learned to keep her claws off. And then, 
after that, there’ll be other work to do, maybe 
on the other side of the world. We’re skir- 
mishers ahead of the railroad, girl, you 
mustn’t forget that; and when the big work 
calls I ’ll have to go.” 

Her eyes were steady and free from tears 
as she looked back at him. “ I know. You ’ve 
got to do your work. And when it calls, we ’ll 
go, we, you understand, John?” 

He nodded his head slowly. u I would lay 
down my life to keep you safe, Judy; but I 
thank God you ’re the kind of woman that will 
fight with her man. We’ll have a bungalow 
or two tucked away in the sweetest corners of 
the world, anywhere you choose, Japan, Cey- 
lon, the South Seas, the East, America. And 
when the work lets us, we’ll go home — we’ll 
go home. And you can write your stories, 
volumes of ’em, Judy — what?” 


AT THE JOURNEYS END 351 


“ Stories,” she murmured, thoughtfully. 
“No, I don’t believe I’ll ever write another 
story. I don’t have to, for I’m happy! And 
I ’m living one that suits me better than any 
story I ever dreamed.” 

The moon was high in the heavens when 
they rode away from the Lost City. The sky 
burned with a fierce white fire and the plain 
of Mervdasht looked like a level sea in the 
silvery light. For a long time they rode heel 
to heel in silence. Then they checked their 
horses and turned for a last look at the City 
That Was. It lay squat on the horizon, 
lonely, silent, a derelict of Time. 

“ And now the journey really begins,” Judy 
said, softly. 

Savidge patted her hand. “You’re wrong, 
my dear. The journey really ended back 
there in the Lost City, didn’t it, Billy, old 
boy?” 

But Billy only pricked up his ears and 
plodded on through the night. 



















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